King of the Chicanos

King of the Chicanos

Other novels by Manuel Ramos:

The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz (1993) The Ballad of Gato Guerrero (1994) The Last Client of Luis Móntez (1996) Blues for the Buffalo (1997) Moony’s Road to Hell (2002) Brown-On-Brown (2003)

King of the Chicanos A Novel

Manuel Ramos

San Antonio, Texas 2010

King of the Chicanos © 2010 by Wings Press for Manuel Ramos Cover art: “Bato con Sunglasses” © 2003 by César Martínez

Digital Dimension Print from a charcoal and pastel drawing matrix. Edition of 22. 42” x 30” Quote from Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo, originally published in Mexico in 1955. English translation by Margaret Sayers Peden. Copyright © 1994 by Northwestern University Press. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

First Edition Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-916727-64-2 ePub ISBN: 978-1-60940-006-4 Kindle ISBN: 978-1-60940-007-1 PDF ISBN: 978-1-60940-008-8 Wings Press 627 E. Guenther San Antonio, Texas 78210 Phone/fax: (210) 271-7805 On-line catalogue and ordering: www.wingspress.com

All Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by Independent Publishers Group • www.ipgbook.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Ramos, Manuel. King of the Chicanos : a novel / Manuel Ramos. -- 1st ed. p. cm. “All Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by Independent Publishers Group.” Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-0-916727-64-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-006-4 (epub) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-007-1 (kindle) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-008-8 (library pdf ) 1. Mexican Americans--History--20th century--Fiction. 2. Mexican Americans--Civil rights--Fiction. 3. Chicano movement--Fiction. I. Title. PS3568.A4468K56 2010 813’.54--dc22

2010004351

Except for fair use in reviews and/or scholarly considerations, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author or the publisher.

For my grandchildren Ava Emanuel Jaden Mason Nico Nikko Tianna

Contents

I: Chato, Sal, and Ray . . . Sh-Boom Groans and Whispers Winter of Mud Peaches Hard-Boned White Boys Hick Town Cigar-Shaped Light Incas to Jerusalem Flooded In Red and White Do Some Time Good Company Second Chance Them That’s Got Thin, Black Snake Justice Kite Lesson Ya Es Tiempo Playing With Fire

2 7 10 15 19 25 27 30 34 36 41 44 48 56 58 60 65

II: El Rey . . . y volver, volver, volver The People’s Strength El Rey ¡Ya Basta! Roosters and Bulls Paco Wrapped Tight A Buzz In The Room

80 86 90 101 114 120 123

III. Viejo . . . Never Can Say Goodbye Let’s Get It On Make It Look Good Waiting For The Flood La Gata Negra

130 133 138 143

It’s Relative A Sacrifice To The Sun God Cuatro Milpas Epilogue

155 160 168 171

Las Cuatro Milpas as sung by Cuarteto Carta Blanca

172

An Incomplete List of Non-fiction Books About the Chicano Movement

175

About the Author

178

Author’s note This is a work of fiction. As such, it takes place primarily in the fictional city of Escobar, a metropolitan area in an unnamed southwestern state. Many thanks to Lucha Corpi and Rolando Hinojosa, two extraordinary writers who sacrificed valuable time and demonstrated commendable patience when they read an early version of this book and then provided me with guidance and feedback; to Michael Sedano, blogger and literary gourmet, who likewise commented and critiqued; to Rudolfo Anaya and his sanctuary in Jémez Springs; to Alfredo Véa, for Gods Go Begging; and to Chico Martínez, who understood.

usage note The term Aztlán is used with an accent, as it was throughout the time periods represented in King of the Chicanos. The use of the accent probably derived from Alurista’s use of it in his seminal poem, “El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán.” However, Nahuatl does not use accents, and current usage generally recognizes that fact.

“A Chicano is a Mexican-American with a non-Anglo image of himself.”

— Ruben Salazar “Who Is a Chicano? And What Is It the Chicanos Want?” Los Angeles Times, February 6, 1970

Since we are running a campaign of The People, it is not for me or for any of my associates to determine to what extent or in what manner you or any group with whom you associate should take up the banner. The responsibility and obligation must be yours and yours alone. If we are to be successful, it must come from the desire of The People to be free, totally free from those who oppress them. No man can tell another how, or even if he should be free. Therefore, we will not make any attempt to have an organization for this campaign. As the saying goes, you’ve got to Do Your Own Thing! Justicia y Libertad.

— Oscar “Zeta” Acosta “Declaration of Candidacy for the Office of Sheriff of Los Angeles County” February 23, 1970

“All right. What can I do for you?” Pedro Páramo repeated. “Like you see, we’ve taken up arms.” “And?” “And nothing. That’s it. Isn’t that enough?” “But why have you done it?” “Well, because others have done the same. Didn’t you know? Hang on a little till we get our instructions, and then we’ll tell you why. For now, we’re just here.”

— Juan Rulfo, from Pedro Páramo

I: Chato, Sal,

and

Sh-Boom

Ray

Groans and Whispers Las Trampas, New Mexico 1999

On another dry, hot summer day in the last year of another century, Pancho Arango stood in line by an open casket in a packed, abbreviated version of a church in northern New Mexico. The good and religious people of Las Trampas had resurrected San José de Gracia from ruin. They had patched the crumbling adobe, reinforced the ceiling and walls, and painstakingly applied a thick coat of sealant to the wooden floor that covered graves dating from the eighteenth century. Although he tried to lose himself in the heavenly mythology of the torpid funeral mass and the somber throng of mourners, he found himself reflecting on the secular life and times of a man he had loved and hated, feared and pitied. He had promised himself that he would not attend the funeral of Ramón Hidalgo. The promise did him no good. He failed in the same way that he failed when he had tried to erase the part Hidalgo had played in his life. When the time came, Arango broke the promise without understanding what it meant. He had to be present when Hidalgo received his peace and his place in history and thus he broke his promise without hesitation, without calculating what the cost would be, what the price for attendance had to be. The sunburned farmer ahead of Arango in the viewing line wore an ill-fitting black suit that exposed frayed cuffs of a shirt that once had been blazing white and an inch-and-a-half of gray socks that once had been midnight black. The man’s bushy, gray eyebrows, full head of gray hair that hung over the frazzled shirt collar, and the glassy, yellow eyes shielded his identity for several minutes, but just as he moved away from the coffin Arango • 2 •

recognized the scar—the mark of the man who had stood next to him while policemen jabbed heavy metal batons at both of them, who had run with Arango when an errant missile of tear gas landed at their feet and exploded in the faces of the policemen. Hidalgo’s dark, waxen face, surrounded by silk and velvet, glowed with serenity. Arango’s dulled senses strained against the uneasy peace that tried to overwhelm him. The inert body in the lustrous coffin, the deep-eyed, gravely-voiced priest, the somber, medieval church, the tense mourners: these images served their orchestrated purpose and what should have been a loud, wild celebration of a wild, demanding life was only another church funeral, one more procession of grief and prayer and fear. The fiery, glowing eyes were closed and the half-smile beneath the thin mustache betrayed the irony that even in death Hidalgo understood. Arango found his way to a pew and sat on the hard wooden seat. Summer burned the wild flowers and weeds and heated the earth but inside the cool air of the adobe building comforted all. A panel of brightly colored, vividly detailed retablos framed the altar. San Isidro smiled ambiguously as a sweating angel plowed his fields. San Francisco stared off to the distant right, a skull in the background. San Miguel brandished a sword that dripped blood. The black San Martín de Porres lovingly cradled the Christ child, and The Little Flower clutched her heart and cried the tears of martyrdom for those who refused to see the beauty and power of the one true God. Swallows twittered along the outside rim of the ancient building. A dog barked and growled near the massive doorway and Arango remembered the stories told by his grandfather about the dog that escorted souls to the underworld. He also remembered that many years before, the dead man’s wife had adopted such a dog. The priest droned solemn entreaties and rhythmic refrains and the assembled crowd answered him with beautiful, resonant verses scripted for them by apostles and prophets. • 3 •



Mi alma está alejada de la paz, he olvidado la dicha. Dije: Ha concluído mi vigor, y la esperanza que me venía del Señor. Recordar mi miseria y mi vida errante es veneno y amargura, Recuerda, sí, recuerda, y mi alma se abate dentro de mí.

They prayed in Spanish and made the sign of the cross in Spanish and they kneeled in supplication in Spanish but Arango could not help but imagine that Hidalgo’s inanimate ears transformed the words into songs of praise and glory, into a patois of English and Mexican slang, into blues and jazz and tejano music that lifted his casket with the spirit of his life. The mass should have been punctuated by the sounds and colors of Hidalgo’s life. The loft should have echoed with gritos from a choir of angry protestors. The paranoia-inducing background noise of police riot-squad mobilization should have filtered from behind the altar. Young men and women wearing bandanas across their foreheads and huelga buttons on their faded denim shirts should have crowded the priest off the altar so that they could make speeches that demanded justice, revenge, y que viva la raza! Outside the church, a mass of swaying humanity, arms linked in a sign of perpetual resistance, should have been singing the verses of De Colores. What Arango heard was something else and there was no way for him to know which sounds were real. Over the drone of the priest and his prayers, the groans and whispers of ghosts of penitentes begged their God for mercy and peace and forgiveness before they silently, humbly marched to the morada and the whip and the pain. The mass ended and pallbearers whom Arango did not know carried the casket to the hearse. They might have been relatives; they could have been men from the village. Bodyguards and attendants often had escorted Hidalgo during his life. They • 4 •

were dark, burly men who kept to themselves and answered to his whims and phobias. Now older, more fragile men accompanied his body with far less ceremony than he had been accustomed to, and with far less urgency. Arango sat in a rented car and waited patiently for an opening and then pulled in line for the long, hot, dusty drive to the weedy cemetery where the priest said final prayers in Spanish, then whispered his condolences to the few who lingered around the open grave after the prayers were finished. Sad-faced, chipped angels hovered on an archway over the worn rut at the entrance to the cemetery. A rusty, broken iron fence enclosed the group of mourners and the small gathering of newspaper and television reporters from Albuquerque. The fence served as a sardonic symbol of futility, a reminder that, for now, everyone had destinations, other places where they could take up space but that, eventually, the final space was reserved behind that rickety yet immovable fence. The tombstones carried the names that had etched themselves on the New Mexican landscape: Baca, Griego, Hernández, Martínez. Pancho believed that it was not right that Hidalgo was buried in the beautiful state of New Mexico. He had lived out the last years of his life where someone had chosen to plant his bones, but he belonged elsewhere. Maybe Texas, where he was born, or so he had boasted many times. Or California, where his myth had been nurtured in loud, agitated meetings on college campuses on the brink of violence. Or Colorado, where clamoring crowds of the poor had raised his silk-screened portrait as well as their fists at the nervous figureheads of their oppression. No, not New Mexico. He belonged where his triumphs had been direct and personal; where he had staked his claim so many years before when he had called everyone’s bluff and bet against overwhelming odds that paid off in defeat and death. He should have been buried where he had emerged victorious in a halo of glory and legend. The truth, however, was that the place no longer existed for him. He had lost it, as he had lost everything else, as Arango had lost it, as an entire generation • 5 •

had dropped that magical time and place and never would pick it up again. Hidalgo had to be content with beautiful but lonely New Mexico. Arango shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the faces he recognized and, yet, did not know. They were faces from another time, another existence, and the details of their importance teased him, out of reach of his awareness but dancing at the edge of his consciousness, fading in and out of his sight as they had done over the years, through all the times and places Hidalgo and Arango had journeyed together. The man with the scar along the border of his face had not come to the cemetery. Arango could not hold back the rush of emotion that slammed him as the coffin was lowered into the hole in the earth. His tears fell and were sucked into the dust the same way that Ramón’s physical remains were sucked into the dark void of the grave. A few of the others noticed Arango’s emotion, assumed wrong conclusions about him and what he was doing there, and one or two even nodded in recognition. Despite the crowd, the buzz from the television camera and the rolling sway of the earth caused by the burial of a man who once had been a god, Arango stood alone, as tall and straight as he could manage under the weight of all he knew, all he had witnessed, and he convinced himself that only he among all of them had a right to be there. He had been the one who had truly listened to Ramón when all the others heard only blasphemy, who talked, shouted, cursed at him when he failed to respond, and who walked out on him when it was much too late for such drama. Pancho Arango made himself believe that he, alone, knew the story.

• 6 •

Winter of Mud Unnamed Colonia, East of Crystal City, Texas 1929

“You have to take the boy. It has to be. I can’t. . . . Now that María’s . . .” His throat constricted and he could not complete his message. His language had more than enough words, phrases and inflections to convey the complicated concept of death—he was Mexican after all—with the mixed and excited blood of the Mexica, the Yaqui, and the French flowing through his arteries and veins, but the tools of vocabulary failed him and he lost the words he needed to speak about his young and delicate wife, now gone from him forever. His body folded against itself as his wounded brain worked on forming the sounds that would ease the ache. Legs and elbows punctuated the air, while the redrimmed eyes pleaded with his listener. His arms moved rapidly, his slender, gnarled hands emphasized the words that finally gushed from him, the words that meant more than the simple message he had to deliver, the words that summed up his life. “I’m going home. Screw this wretched country! I’m finished with it. María wanted her child born in the United States, and he was. She wanted so much for him. His birth in this damn land killed her. I’m begging you, Consuelo. María was your sister. You have to take the child.” The quick, staccato cadence of his words betrayed his insecurity about what he needed to say. The rhythm of his language seeped into the sleeping child’s dreams, where it soothed and caressed, where it forever replaced the singing voice of the mother he would never know. The Texas winter cut through the meaningless walls of the shack. Mud, cold and darkness surrounded the hovel and • 7 •

its occupants. The death of the child’s mother required such a world, and now the man’s heart had frozen in its grief, had turned into the mud of the land that he hated because it had taken her from him and left only the dimming radiance of her memory and the child with glowing black eyes and a broad, flat nose—his nose and her eyes. He did not want to hate the child but he knew it could happen, that it would happen unless he did what he had no right to do. The woman extended her arms for the delicate bundle. She was much shorter than the man and she had to reach up for the baby. Her skin matched the darkness of the night, a purple blackness that only years of hard labor under the torture of the sun could create. The leathery face and thick hair surrounded the sleeping child, her cracked and thin lips involuntarily formed sounds created centuries before to ward off the demons that stirred sleeping children, that conjured nightmares and visions that forced sleeping children to pierce the night with cries that revealed their existence. She stared at the infant, sleeping quietly, at peace and oblivious to the act of abandonment that played out around him. Stark, yellow light from a dusty bulb swaying on a thin frayed cord framed the man and woman. Tin and tarpaper rattled in the night. Greasy, stained linoleum with curling corners tried and failed to cover the hard-packed dirt floor, and the stale air smothered all color and sound. In his grief, the man did not realize what he asked. The shack already housed too many children and not enough food. It served as the starting point for the family of migrants, some related only by circumstance, and always was referred to, without affection, as the little house, la casita, by its inhabitants who roamed thousands of miles for a few dollars, for the right to abuse their bodies and minds while they harvested one numbing crop after another. The boy would have to go hungry, he would suffer disease of the body and the crippling of the spirit, and he would endure the agony in his bones that comes from days of unrelenting labor and nights filled with the crying and shouting • 8 •

of poor desperate people, and the quiet moans of death. The man understood all that, but that night, in the Texas winter of mud, he could not accept it, and so he had asked her to assist him with his sin. “What’s his name, Alberto? Did you give the child a name?” “María named him after your father. She said that before...” Consuelo kissed the baby’s forehead. The man walked into the night. He heard a dim sound, the beginning of a song. Somewhere, someone played a recording of a family of singers, the Cuarteto Carta Blanca. The scratchy music floated across the cold darkness. A rough-throated man sang about the sadness of losing his home and his young daughters echoed the lament with high, immature voices. Not even a wall was left of the little white house, only four corn fields, cuatro milpas. And yet, he had his brown woman and that was all that mattered. That, and the memories of their happy home. The woman drew the baby to her breast. “Hello, Ramón Hidalgo. Bienvenido a tu hogar, y que Dios le proteja.”

• 9 •

Peaches Palisade, Colorado 1939

The camp was an amazing place for Ramón. There were kids in every cabin, all ages, and everybody worked. The growers’ trucks came for the workers before the sun rose and he didn’t see the camp again until after the weighing of picked fruit and balancing of workers’ accounts were finished, and by then it was dark. The nights were warm and clear with classic Western sunsets and a moon that lit up the camp. The people congregated in loud groups, talking, laughing, arguing and singing. They were old friends or relatives in large, extended families. Cooking smells floated around the camp. Viejitos played Mexican songs on guitars while clusters of young men roamed the camp looking for trouble or girls. The boys were showered and wore fresh clothes, their dark skins burned from hours in the orchards. They mixed English and Spanish, and Ramón saw shiny metal crosses hanging from silver or gold chains around their necks. Ramón’s work was basic to the harvest. The pickers called him a boxer. He dragged wooden crates to the trees ahead of the workers and he fetched boxes for the pickers who needed more. The workers were paid by the box, and Ramón saw himself as an important cog in the process. He had to stay ahead of the pace. If he was slow, or couldn’t find a box when it was needed, the worker wasted time and lost money. His cousin Marina emphasized his responsibility and pointed out that his pay was added to the family’s total, that’s how important he was. Ramón earned every penny of his five cents an hour. Peach fuzz covered his clothes, stuck to his hair and crept down his throat. After the first few days he didn’t notice it and • 10 •

he quit scratching. It lay like fine, white dust on his skin. Ramón learned who among the workers were friendly or slow, and who needed more boxes than others. He sweated with the pickers, laughed at their jokes, and relished the lunches Marina made for him. He sat in the shade of a tree picked clean and ate tortillas stuffed with beans or gulped water from a burlap bag hanging on a branch. His skinny frame filled out and he took pride in the hardened muscles in his arms. One day, during a break, he told his cousin, “I’ll buy a cross when we go home so I can wear it to school.” The boys and girls with whom Ramón had grown up in the hundreds of camps, shacks, and broken-down pickup trucks of his farm worker youth were referred to as cousins, but the actual bloodlines were irrelevant. The children of his Tía Consuelo were cousins, but so were the other children who had been picked up along the way, deposited with Consuelo by women or men too tired to carry on, too broken to try to feed another mouth, or too desperate to risk another infant’s death. Marina shook her head. “A crucifix, hijo, it’s called a crucifix, but they won’t let you wear it to school, no matter how much the girls like it.” Marina was older, almost sixteen, and she was the boss of the family in Consuelo’s absence. When the peaches were gone, loaded on trucks for the mad dash to the cities to beat the other growers, the pickers prepared to move on. Every shack celebrated the end of the season, the chance to find work for the winter wherever the dust-bowl earth still produced or to prepare for the drive back home to Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma or Mexico. Ramón stood near his family’s shack. Juan and Jesse, teenagers, walked past him, then, when he thought they had ignored him, they looked back and Juan said, “Hey, Chato, come on, man. Vámonos al party. La última parranda. Last night to dance with the girls.” Ramón ran in response to their greeting but he caught himself and slowed his feet to a saunter. He tried to tone down his smile. • 11 •

They walked to the camp hall, the largest cabin, used for church and meetings and the party at the end of the season. The women from the Mexican shacks carried in pots of beans, rice and mole. Three men played loud and fast music on a guitar, accordion and drum. There were Italians, Irish, Polish, Germans, Okies, Arkies, and Japanese in the camp, and they all attended the party, but the Mexicans outnumbered everyone. Food from around the world was served up to anyone. Ramón heard the songs his aunt sang to herself back home but now he understood the words, he thought he knew why she cried or laughed or smiled, and Ramón wanted her to know he liked the songs, too. He saw his cousin clapping her hands, standing with the other single women, urging on the musicians, waiting for a boy to ask her to dance. Ramón bumped into his cousin Abel near the food table, drinking homemade punch. Abel’s lips were red. “Hey, Abe. Where’s your sister? It’s hot, huh?” “Yeah, it’s hot for sure. She’s at the cabin. She didn’t want to come. Packing for the trip home or something. She said for me to stay with you and Marina. She’ll come later.” A slight hesitation. “Chato.” “What’s with the Chato stuff? Why you call me that?” Ramón helped himself to a plate of beans and chile. He hurriedly scooped food in his mouth with the help of a thick, cold tortilla. “That’s your name now, Chato. All the guys are calling you that. With that nose, what do you expect?” Ramón swallowed, and then drank punch. “I’m not sure I like it.” “Not much you can do about it. Chato.” Ramón changed the subject. “You know, I really like this Mexican stuff. I don’t know, it’s something about here. I can’t say it.” He shook his head and hoped he hadn’t embarrassed himself. He set down his plate and pushed his brand new black comb through his hair, then patted the finished product to make sure • 12 •

everything was in place. He felt loose-jointed, giddy. Maybe he was drunk from the too-sweet punch, or from listening to Juan and Jesse talk about the girls, or from the long day that finished the crop. “Órale, Chato, we are Mexicans. Your mom and my mom were Mexicans, so are our dads. Don’t you know nothin’, man?” “I know that, I’m not saying that. It’s just that, you know, it’s different somehow, it’s not the same. Oh hell, forget it.” Abel laughed and thumped Ramón on the back. “That sun got to you today, little man. Your brain’s been fried; you lost it, man, out here in the boondocks, picking peaches. You better hope you find it before we get back home.” Abel almost shouted into Ramón’s ear. The music roared over the crowd. Feet and legs and waving arms brushed by Ramón. He spun with the dancers, laughing and hollering, stamping his feet to the beat of the drum. His eyes pounded with the rhythm and the sounds and the smells and he could feel his stomach rumbling. Three straight weeks of sun, sweat and labor in the orchard caught up with the boy. He thought about the long trip home and the colonia where no one except Abel would know about the camp or would even understand what he had seen and heard. Something rushed up his throat and he clamped his jaws tight. His queasiness caught him off guard. He ran through the crowd of dancing people, ignoring the shouts of family and friends. He heard someone laughing. He streaked out of the hall, stopped at the entrance, and vomited over the side of the wooden steps. When he finished, he stumbled down the steps, sat in the dirt and thought about going back to the casita, the shack in Texas. “Ramón, is that you? What are you doing? God, you’re sick. Oh, poor baby. I hope you’re not like this on the drive home.” Marina picked him up and hugged him with strong, steady arms and shoulders. “It must have been the sun, pobrecito. We worked you too hard. But you did fine, Ramón, just fine. You worked as hard as the others, harder even. The workers asked me about • 13 •

you, they couldn’t believe you were ten years old. A real man, they said. I must be proud, they said, and I told them I was, I was proud, Ramón. Now we can go home.” Ramón held onto Marina for an instant, then he pushed away and started walking back to the cabin. “Yeah, we got to go early. School starts next week. You think the teacher will want to hear about how to pick peaches, about being a boxer?” “I hope so Ramón, I hope so. But even if she doesn’t, you can tell your Tía Consuelo, and all the cousins. And you can always tell me, niño, always.”

• 14 •

Hard-Boned White Boys Stockton, California 1943

“Órale, Chato. ¿Qué hubo? ¿Qué pasa?” He nodded his head at the other boy, who pointed his chin at him in response. “Aquí nomás, Tino. ¿Ya sabes, no?” They eyed one another at the street corner where they had inconveniently met. They had to act out the established routines, the accepted norm for what passed as civility between two young migrant workers on an early Saturday evening in a small, inconspicuous town. A sign at the edge of the town proclaimed that the place was “the first community in California to have an American name, all others being of Spanish or Indian origin.” Their loitering was tolerated only because they were needed to gather the asparagus from the farms that surrounded the town, and there was no one else for that work. The tall, dark boy with Hollywood Latin Lover good looks stood with his hands in his pockets, a slouch in his posture. He shuffled rather than took steps, swayed rather than walked. The web of his left hand framed a homemade tattoo of a small cross with radiating lines. The rugged-looking second boy had a broad, flat nose. No one would think of him as handsome but he carried himself with respect and strength. They wore crisply ironed, pleated slacks tied to their bony hips by thin white belts. The pointed collars of bright colored shirts caressed their scrawny necks. The slender, vicious weapons of their youth, switchblades, rested in their pockets. Each boy waited for any sign from the other that this would be the • 15 •

day for the reckoning, for balancing the score, for the righting of wrongs that never existed. Their wariness did not come from fear. How they acted reflected much more than their individual situations, yet they were unaware of their roles in a drama created by forces that moved over them like the dust devils that stirred the rich farmland dirt. If they strutted and talked cheaply, swaggered and dared anyone to knock the chips off their shoulders, they also remembered the nights they whimpered in dirty bunks, exhausted from the sun, hands and feet blistered and bleeding, looking forward only to the next camp, the next crop, the next long highway. They craved to be part of the group they defined by their insolent greetings, the hybrid slang, the swing music, the dangerous attitudes and the smooth smiles. They were young Mexican Americans, adrift on the streets of a North American farm town. They lived in a time that had no space for them, that neglected their existence and denied their spirit, and instead courted them for failure. One of them ventured a gesture. He took a chance on the soothing coolness of the night after the swelter of the day, gambled that the beautiful sky with the glow of the dying sun would not allow itself to frame an ugly event, not that night. “How’s your primo, Freddy?” Tino asked in the soft voice that always surprised his listeners. “Heard anything from him?” Several of the cousins were in the military, soldiers and sailors in the various theaters of war that had sprung up around the world in places that they had not known existed, with names they could not pronounce, with other men whose only connection was their mutual terror of indiscriminate death at the hands of the strange, unknown enemy. “Freddy’s missing, just like Juan.” Chato answered with some hesitation, a bit of resistance to having a conversation with another who could be a threat. “At least he’s not dead yet, not like Tomás, not yet anyway. That we know of, that we’ve been told about.” • 16 •

Tino nodded. “Must be real tough on your aunt.” His concern sounded genuine. “So many kids and so many in the war.” He paused and the bravado came back. “I can’t wait until I can go. Stick me some Japs. They won’t know what hit them, not when this crazy Chicano hits the beach.” Chato had never heard the word Chicano before that minute, but he knew exactly what Tino meant as soon as he said it. Like so many other words that floated between Spanish and English, that tried to convey the dimension of living in two different worlds, the slang term for Mexicans in the United States made immediate sense to him. In Colorado, down around Pueblo, the word was skaj. In Southern California, he was just a pocho. Up in Michigan, an old Indian from Albuquerque who worked with them in the fields said that they were Spanish Americans, and that kind of made sense to Chato. In Crystal City, children at the migrant school he had attended for a few weeks had chided him about being a pachuco. Everywhere he went, la raza stood for all of them together, the people, the race, the Mexicans. Chicano. He wondered where that one had come from. “Hey, greasers!” “Spics!” “Dirty Mexicans!” “Go back to Mexico!” Hard-boned white boys in overalls, flannel shirts and floppy cowboy hats packed the bed of a pre-war Chevy pickup. From the truck’s cab, Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys loudly sang about a woman named Rose from old San Antone, on the moonlit path beside the Alamo. Chato and Tino flinched, tensed their muscles, and drew closer together. They kept the circling truck in their eyesight, watched it cruise up the street, stop at the corner, turn around and come back at them. The curses flung from the bed of the truck reached the boys before the dusty pickup stopped. Tino drew the knife from his pocket and said a few words to Chato. His soft voice had grown even softer, the words almost • 17 •

lost in the gear-grinding jumble of the old truck loaded down with the alcohol-fueled farm boys. “These gabachos want to rumble. You ready, Chato?” When Ramón Hidalgo remembered that fight, when he looked back at the outburst of violence that forever marked the type of man he had to be, he did not necessarily recall the angry epithets, nor did he always imagine the dull thump of the blows from the blistered, rock-hard fists or the clod-hopper-covered feet. He pointedly ignored the red, gushing line that creased Tino’s jaw where a fishing knife slashed open the skin. He never spoke about the boot heel that smashed his already flat nose and left him a thin ridge of scabbed, lighter skin that horizontally split his nose in two. More often than not, his mind saw the background of cloud layers tinged orange and pink by the setting sun. There was silence just before the first punch landed, and as he would later tell the story, the country boys moved as though they trudged in a quagmire of fields flooded by the overflowing ditches of a wet spring. Against the postcard image of the sunset, young men’s hatred filled the silence, washed out the watercolor hues of the fading sky, and blotted away the calm evening that briefly had existed for Chato Hidalgo and Tino García.

• 18 •

Hick Town Florence, Colorado 1954

By the time he struck out on his own, Hidalgo had experienced loss many times over. One of his primos had been hit by lightning while topping beets in the fields near Fort Lupton, Colorado. Three or four others went off to the war and never returned. An uncle, only twelve, died from leukemia. Another had been crushed under a mountain of coal in a cave-in, probably hung-over from the celebration of his twenty-first birthday. Several primas had escaped the shack in Mercury sedans, Ford pickups and Chevy coupes, lost to their family as though they had never existed. Marina vanished one night and later sent Hidalgo a letter that she was heading to Chicago. Ramón Hidalgo managed to kick out of the migrant stream with next to no schooling and, for the most part, he had to teach himself how to read and write, but when he had the chance he earned a high school equivalency degree in a few months. As a boy he learned things on his own because no one helped him learn, no one expressed faith in his intelligence. He wanted to know as much as possible about the world he saw around him despite the negativity that teachers and crop supervisors threw at him. Before he turned fifteen, Hidalgo knew how to play the guitar and sing a ranchera like he was Pedro Infante serenading a señorita. Before he was twenty he had earned money as a mariachi, carpenter, plumber, hod-carrier, miner, truck driver. At twenty-five, Hidalgo knew what his true calling was and what he was meant to do with the remainder of his life. Sell. • 19 •

Ramón Hidalgo had concluded that he was a born salesman. Years later he bragged that he sold light bulbs to blind women, tires to men who did not know how to drive, and burglar alarms to homeless families. Even his enemies had to admire him for his ability to cajole, trade, bargain, barter, woo— sell. When his crop-chasing days were over he tried to find a niche but the 1950s offered little in the way of possibilities for a pug-looking Mexican kid who did not box, did not want to do construction work, and who did not want to pick any more peaches. He left California in a freight car with the excuse that he was looking for one of his cousins who owned a restaurant somewhere in Kansas. In Wichita, on the edge of starvation and without a good pair of shoes to his name, Hidalgo answered a newspaper ad that promised “GOOD WAGES!” and “MANY OPPORTUNITIES!” for the right man or woman. He hooked up with a man who organized groups of sales people, “troops” he called them, door-to-door salesmen who offered everything from encyclopedias to women’s lingerie. The man was William Adams Beatrice—Big Bill. Ramón Hidalgo told Big Bill that his name was Sal Royale, a label he created on the long train ride to Kansas. He thought the name gave him a certain bit of class and it was ambiguous enough that he could be an Italian or Spaniard, maybe even a Greek. The obese, pink man shook his head when he heard the name but he went along. Big Bill took the talented but still naive Chato Hidalgo and transformed him into Sal the Salesman, and Sal the Salesman became a legend among entrepreneurs and get rich-quick schemers, from Fuller Brush men to Mason Shoe agents, from fly-by-night rascals to petty swindlers to con artists, and in stretches of the West from Bakersfield, California, to Larimer, Wyoming. Big Bill believed in Sal. He saw that spark in the Mexican kid that came along infrequently and he told Sal that with Sal’s innate talent and Big Bill’s grooming, the two of them could go far. It was enough for Hidalgo. He wanted to believe • 20 •

Big Bill, and he wanted to believe in himself, so he jumped on Big Bill’s wagon for the bumpy ride that lasted until the inevitable crash.

• “This hick town is the end of the road for me. Bill, you screwed up.” Carl Powers was only twenty-one, barely legal. Yet, there he was, challenging Big Bill about the one thing in the world that Bill knew better than anyone—where to find the customers, the marks, the squares. Bill understood who would buy what he was selling, and how to convince them they needed it and that they could afford it. The troops relied on Bill’s knowledge, his business sense, and his people-pleasing acumen. Carl Powers had sniggered at all that. Carl’s blond crew cut was laden with Butch Wax, the full sides flaring dramatically backwards in strict, ironside wings that tapered into a razor-sharp ducktail. He called his hairdo a “flat top boogie” and he swore that he was a boogie boy, a cool cat. But Sal had learned down in Las Vegas, New Mex, that Carl was nothing more than a cowboy from Farmington with a black hole of thirst who had jumped at Bill’s recruitment pitch. Bill was short a man because of, as Bill put it, an unfortunate misunderstanding between one of his salesmen and a rather young woman and a subsequent arrest in a bar, and Bill had become desperate to leave the Land of Enchantment and get on with the trip. Bill stretched his meaty arms and took a deep breath. His chest expanded into a barrel of cocky self-assurance and glib showmanship. He kept his brown suit pressed and it still looked neat, although the troop had been on the road for more than two weeks. The three men sat in a cramped, stuffy room in the Florence Hotel that overlooked a Main Street sweltering in the haze of a rich Colorado summer. Smoke from Bill’s cigar • 21 •

filled the air. Occasionally the sound of a pickup truck’s horn or the growl of a souped-up flathead crept into the room, and periodically the shouts and laughter of young boys on bicycles or young girls jumping rope interrupted the conversation, but what Sal heard most distinctly were the cicadas, the chicharras, that buzzed in the huge maple and elm trees that lined the side streets. “Carl, this town’s got three thousand people.” Big Bill sighed as he said the words he thought he should not have to repeat. “Three thousand hard-working, God-fearing, polite but ambitious people. Three thousand people in a small town who are picking up new TVs, listening to the Grand Ole Opry, sending their kids off to school to learn about places like New York City and Los Ann-gull-leez, to study the Russians and all about that comm-new-ism. These folks are Eye-talions, Metsicans, and some bo-hunks, too. Working stiffs barely meeting ends, but there’s a few with a bit of scratch that have nice big homes, relatively considering, you understand. Three thousand people who hear about the American dream, read about it in their newspapers and magazines, and whose kids listen to it on the radio broadcast from Metsico, of all places.” Big Bill looked at Sal and smiled so that there was no misunderstanding between him and Sal. Carl grunted, shook his head and moved to the window where he stared at the slow, sparse traffic on Main Street. “The town is out here next to the Arkansas River, between Pe-u-weblo and Cannon City, kind of forgotten about by the rest of the state.” Big Bill’s voice filled the room. “They got one high school whose football games are the highlight of the fall, and summer American Legion baseball, a drive-in movie down the highway a stretch, a bar or two or three, coal mines up in the hills, and the steel mill in Pe-u-weblo. Finally, they got themselves, their families. This place is perfect, Carl. Perfect for us and the Encyclopedia of Human Knowledge. These folks want to know more about that big wonderful world out there, on the other side of the river, the world that begins at Pe-u-weblo and • 22 •

ends who knows where. And we got the right product at the right time for these folks.” Big Bill stood from his chair and lumbered next to Carl. “If you don’t know that, then I made a mistake when I thought you were a winner, one of those men who were going to make an impact. So, you may be right, Carl. I did screw up, but what I screwed up about was you.” Carl smiled, weakly, and put his fingers to his lips as though he was thinking through all the implications of Big Bill’s words. His fingers pressed up against his lips and he almost whistled. He was stretching time, a technique Bill taught all his troops. Sal had heard the same words from Bill that all the sales people heard, that all were expected to learn and use. “Do something with your hands if you need time to think over an answer. Scratch your nose, hell, scratch your butt if you have to. Distract the mark, just like a magician. You’re working your own magic on these folks, remember that. If you can’t roll out a response to a tough question like it was the honest-to-goodness truth, as white as Alaskan snow, then you need time to come up with something and that’s when you got to stretch time by diverting the customer. Just don’t make it too obvious and don’t do it too often and don’t, whatever you do, don’t drag it out too long.” Carl had taken too long. Finally, he said, “Hey, no offense, Bill. I’m just bored, you know. These small towns drive me nuts. No real bars, no real women.” Bill sadly shook his head. “Carl, this should be the most exciting time of your life. You’re a young man, healthy, somewhat aware. Free, white and twenty-one. The world can be your playpen. You’re on the road, seeing this great country of ours, meeting people, salt-of-theearth people, and men like Sal, here. Where else you going to get this kind of opportunity? You disappoint me bad, boy. You really do.” Carl was only a few feet from Bill but the distance between the two could have been an ocean for all that Carl understood about what was happening. • 23 •

Bill raised his arms and balled his hands into fists the size of small hams. They smashed Carl’s face, first the left, then the right. Carl was knocked out of his chair and onto his back. Blood flowed from a broken nose and one of Carl’s eyeballs twitched crazily. He rolled on his side, semi-conscious. “Sal, clean him up and then haul Carl to that bus station down the street. Here’s a twenty. When he wakes up, tell him to get as far away as this money will take him. If you have to, because he won’t cooperate, knock him out, dump him on a bench at the station and buy a bus ticket for him. You can do it. I got no doubt. Tell the clerk to make sure he gets on the bus. Then come back here and we’ll start our business day. We got a lot of selling to do before the day ends!” From down the hall a radio blared the most popular song of the day. Sal could not resist the tune and, as he wobbled through the hotel lobby with the stunned Carl hanging on, he hummed the lyrics. Life could be a dream. Sh-boom. Life could be a dream, sweetheart. Oh, life could be a dream. Sh-boom.

• 24 •

Cigar-Shaped Light Florence, Colorado 1954

The day had been unique since the early morning. Sal thought the weather was perfect: bright, sunny, not too hot. He had a good breakfast at a small cafe that was deserted except for him. The waitress smiled and was polite but left him alone. Sal liked that. He drank several cups of the diner’s good coffee and meticulously chewed the greasy ham and eggs. He read the Florence Citizen and appreciated the abundance of good news in the local newspaper. He met Big Bill in the hotel parking lot and expected the usual over-the-top sermon about selling and catching new customers. But Bill was quiet, distracted. Sal asked, “You all right, Bill?” “Can’t put a finger on it, like there’s something in the wind, you know?” Sal nodded. He knew the feeling. Bill dropped off Sal near the town’s baseball field, a lot overgrown with weeds in the outfield but with a smooth, hardpacked dirt infield. Sal lifted his case, draped the strap over his shoulders and waited for inspiration about what direction he should walk. A skinny, dark boy ran at him. His coal-black hair glistened in the sunshine. He stopped and stared at Sal. Gray dirt spotted his caramel brown cheeks and forehead. “You see the lights? You see them?” “What are you talking about?” “Over there, over the field. Look, the lights.” The boy pointed in the direction of the baseball diamond. Sal followed the boy’s finger up into the powder blue sky. A • 25 •

flashing, cigar-shaped light pulsed over the field. It changed colors: red, white, blue, green. It hovered, moved slightly, hovered again. The colors kept changing and Sal thought it appeared to grow longer. “What is that?” The boy shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “Heck, I don’t know. Jeannie told me about it and I came running to see. There’s all kinds of people watching it.” A crowd had gathered in the infield, staring up at the light. Dozens watched, pointed, looked through binoculars. No one seemed distressed by the object. “This happen a lot around here?” “Heck no. First time I ever seen anything like that. I gotta go get a better look.” The boy ran off. Sal watched for several minutes but nothing happened. The light stayed over the field and a few more excited people joined the crowd but no one did anything about the object. Sal realized there was nothing for them to do and, thus, nothing for him to do either. He turned and walked to the first house on the corner.



• 26 •

Incas to Jerusalem Florence, Colorado 1954

Crude, hand-painted white letters spelled Morales on the black mailbox. Sal took a deep breath. He knocked on the loose and noisy screen door of the beige stucco house. A dark-haired, round-faced Mexican woman answered. She looked surprised to see another Mexican. A large, nondescript brown dog with ugly ears, a skewed smile and drooping skin knelt by her feet. “Good morning, ma’am.” Bill had instructed Sal to speak English, even to the Mexicans, when he first made contact. Let the customer decide in which language the conversation would continue. The woman frowned. “Buenos días. ¿Y qué quiere usted?” Sal began his spiel in Spanish. “I’m with the Encyclopedia of Human Knowledge, from New York City. The number one encyclopedia, used by all the finest universities, colleges, and fraternities around the world. I’m here in this wonderful town for only a few days, waiting for our regional supervisor to issue my orders for Los Angeles or Chicago, one way or the other. But while I’m here, I’ve been informed that I can provide some lucky Florence family the chance to own a completely free set of our encyclopedias, just for talking with me a few minutes. Completely free. The company does this kind of promotion only once a year, and the timing is right for the fine folks of Florence, Colorado. I’m not trying to sell you anything but I do want to offer you something.” He smiled and flashed a business card. The card had the company’s name, a New York address and a phone number. Sal’s name was not on the card. • 27 •

She did not take the card. “If you’re not sellin’, that’s good,” she said in English, “‘cause I’m not buyin’. Don’t give me that free nonsense. Ain’t nothin’ free, mister. Even I know that, and I lived all my life here in this little town, never made it to New York City.” The dog growled. Sal’s smile stretched and his face rivaled the dog’s expression. He switched to English. “You got me, ma’am, and I’m sorry. There are some things I have to say. The company requires it. But just give me a couple of minutes and I can explain what the deal is. There is a chance you might get something free—not a big chance, for sure, but a chance. Then, if you don’t want anything after I finish, fine. Your choice. I just got to make so many calls in one day, whether I sell anything or not. So, I guess all I’m really asking for is about five minutes of your time to explain the books and our program, and then I’m gone and you get an entry in the company’s contest for a set of books. That’s it. I promise. Five minutes.” Sal’s bright eyes intrigued the woman and she hesitated “I’ve read these books,” Sal offered. “I have a set in my car, of course, and as I travel around this beautiful state every night I read another section. They are wonderful items, ma’am. You have any children?” Sal reached into his briefcase, pulled volume 8 - Incas to Jerusalem - and opened it to the page that had plastic overlays of the tendons, muscles and bone structure of the human jaw. The scientific-looking illustrations always hooked the customer. Who could resist flipping the pages that started with the face of a handsome blond-haired young man, which, as if by magic, became sinewy purple tendons, then gray muscles with appropriate red veins and arteries, then a stark white skeleton with a mouth full of perfect teeth? “Ah, sí. Sí tenemos niños. You want to take a few? I got some to spare.” Sal laughed, a bit heartier than necessary. “Well, no, señora, but if they are of junior high or high school age, these • 28 •

encyclopedias are perfect for reports, class projects, extra credit, you name it, even music and playing an instrument. About the only thing they can’t help with is making the football team, for the boys you know.” A thin wisp of an angel appeared at the woman’s side. “Mamá, who you talking to?” Sal felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs. The angel disappeared then reappeared in the light and shadow of the morning that filtered through the doorway. Her wings fluttered invisibly, almost soundlessly. “Oh, just listening to this talkative young man here instruct me about raising kids and all the wonderful things that his books can do for Pepe and Pato. Mi’ja, you think those two malcriados could use a set of encyclopedias?” The daughter’s eyes flared and sparkled at the mere suggestion of her younger brothers reading. She licked her lips with a pointed pink tongue and stared directly at Sal, taking in his scarred nose and beautiful eyes. She retracted her wings. “Mamá, let the young man in so that we can look at his books. You know and I know and I’m sure even he knows that we ain’t buying anything, so what’s the harm? Come in, mister. You want some lemonade?” Sal stood at the doorway, waiting for directions. He had forgotten that he was Sal the Salesman. He had forgotten Big Bill and Carl. He had lost his way. He had fallen in love.

• 29 •

Flooded In Red and White Florence, Colorado 1954

“What a mess, Ramón. My father won’t talk to me, Mamá has forbidden me to see you, and your boss says that you have to stay out of Florence. I can’t do this. I can’t turn against my family. I love you, but Mamá says I’m too young to know what love is, that you are nothing but a vagabundo, a tramp. She says I’m ruining my life. That you don’t have a real job, that we don’t know anything about you, that you don’t have a house or a shack or even a tent. I don’t know what to do, Ramón.” They sat at a wooden table in a small park, close to the street. The sounds and smells of an early fall evening filled the air—laughing children at the swings, the perfume of overripe apples piled near smoking elm leaves, the rustle of the soft wind caressing a blue spruce. “Catarina, none of that matters. The only thing that does matter is us. Big Bill can go to hell. I’ll do what I want. Just because I work for him doesn’t mean he owns me. He’s sent me all over the goddamned country but I keep coming back, don’t I? Your mother and father will just have to understand. Yes, you’re only eighteen and I’m twenty-five. So what? You finished school; you’re ready to start your own life. With me. We’ll move to Escobar, where I’ll get a real job in construction. There’s all kinds of work in that town. I’ve done construction before and I can do it again, and one day I’ll join the union, make decent money, and buy a house. But it has to be with you, Catarina. I can’t do it without you. I’ve never loved anyone before, never had anyone who meant so much to me. If you don’t go with me, I . . .” She touched his cheek. • 30 •

Cigar smoke invaded their intimacy. She pulled back her hand and looked up. Big Bill hovered, his silhouette outlined by a halo from a street light. “What a pretty picture. The two lovers making out in the dark like a couple of kids. This your idea of a romantic date, Sal?” Bill’s voice drowned out the laughter and the wind; it smothered even the smells of the small town. Sal jumped to his feet. “Bill! What are you doing here? What do you want?” Bill moved closer to the couple. “Easy kid. Relax. Just want to talk about what you been doing lately, chasing after this Mexican piece, losing orders, missing customers.” Sal clenched his fists. He looked at Catarina and hoped that she did not understand Bill’s words. “In case you forgot, Sal, you owe me. Almost two grand. That suit of clothes, your travel expenses, and the advances on your commissions. I haven’t even begun to figure out what you’ve cost me in business.” Sal nodded his head. He understood the debt he owed Bill. “You got to get in control, Sal. Stop the bullshit. Take care of your business with this twist, knock off whatever you need and let’s get on to Oklahoma City. We got business to take care of, Sal, we got some sales to make.” “Shut up about Catarina,” Sal blurted without thinking. “I’m through, Bill. We’re going to get married. I’ll pay whatever I owe, don’t worry about that. But I’m through with you because I got to settle down. It’s just time, Bill. Time to grow up.” Bill’s hand slipped inside the inner pocket of his suit coat. It reappeared holding a small silver pistol. “You crazy Mexican. You don’t get to leave just because this little chile pepper has you all hot and bothered. Hell, lay her right here and get it out of your system. Fuck her and let’s go. Grow up? You owe me, and no one leaves Big Bill until they • 31 •

pay off their obligations. You know that. It was part of the deal. Now, get to it. You going to do this piece? You need some help? Is that it? You not sure how to get started? I’ll help.” Bill turned to Catarina. “Take off that pretty little dress, señorita. Let your boyfriend take care of his business. Kids are always screwing in this park, under these tables. Maybe you’ve already been here, right? You look like you can show lover boy here how to handle this.” Hidalgo jumped at Bill. They fell to the ground and rolled on the dry grass and weeds. The men cursed and groaned. Catarina wanted to scream, to run to her house, to jump on the fighting men. She stood, immobile and afraid. The sound of blows landing on a thin rib cage mixed with the grunts of the wind knocked out of the fleshy man. A loud thud burst through the night. The men stopped moving. The shadow that stretched on the ground split in two. The larger shadow blocked the light and Catarina knew it was Bill. “Stupid Mexican. You had it made with me. You blew it. Too damned bad for you, Sal.” He pointed the gun at Ramón. Catarina screamed. Bill turned. His glazed eyes stared through Catarina. “Too bad for you, too.” The gun hung in the air between them, almost touching Catarina’s blouse. Sal tackled Bill from behind. He shouted, “Run, Catarina!” A shot pierced the night. Sal struggled to his feet. He held the gun. Catarina grabbed his hand and pulled him close. He dropped the gun. Bill lay flat on his back, bleeding and moaning. Catarina had to speak; she had to say the words before it was too late. “I love you, Ramón. I’ll go with you. To Raton, you said. We can get married there, without any problems. After a few days, I’ll talk with Mamá and Papá. They will have to understand. There’s just one thing.” • 32 •

He tensed. “¿Qué?” A police siren echoed through the park. They were flooded in red and white light. “You have to quit using the name Sal. You’re not Sal the Salesman anymore. You’re my husband, Ramón Hidalgo, and I am Mrs. Hidalgo.” “Mi amor.” “Yes, my love. Yes.”

• 33 •

Do Some Time Cañon City, Colorado 1956

Two and a half years for assaulting Big Bill. Any Mexican had to do some time for shooting a white man even if it was self-defense. The judge understood the realities, the politics of the day, but he sympathized with the young man who eloquently presented his story in the courtroom. Ramón was not intimidated by the legal mumbo-jumbo. Just the opposite. He relished the times when he spoke to the judge and jury, when he explained what had happened, when he told how he planned to marry Catarina and start a family. It helped that she was in the courtroom every day of the trial, with her Mamá, of course. Looking beautiful as only an eighteen-year-old Chicana angel can. The judge was not heartless. He was Italian, came from a family of miners. He had experienced hard work and a young man’s ambition for the good life and to start a family. He had lived among Mexicans all his life, born and raised in Cañon City, just a few miles upriver from Florence. He had to comply with the jury’s conviction on the assault charge but he gave Ramón a fairly light sentence, and that meant he was released after thirty months. He and Catarina got married, moved out of the state and settled in Escobar. Big Bill disappeared. At least he never showed himself to Hidalgo again. Losing his best ever salesman took something out of Bill. He didn’t hate Ramón, just the opposite. Ramón later heard that Big Bill liked to show off his scar—he would point to the bullet crease, laugh, and launch into a wild tale of a gunfight “out West” over a love gone wrong. Ramón also learned, years later, that the disgraced salesman Carl Powers • 34 •

landed in Denver where he found a job driving for the mayor. A few years later, as payback for not having a big mouth about the places where he drove the mayor late at night, Carl was admitted to the police academy, somehow made it through, and then he developed quite a reputation for being a mean cop. They said he liked to beat up Mexicans, not all that unusual in those days, and fat guys. He ended up in prison, along with many of his friends, when the Denver police burglary ring was exposed and busted in 1961.

• 35 •

Good Company Escobar 1959

Ramón and Catarina settled in to their life in Escobar with their first child, Luis. Eventually there would be two more, Elizabeth and Ray, Jr. Ramón worked long hours for Robinson Building Supply and Construction, while Catarina raised Luis, and when money was tight, as it often was, she took an occasional job as a waitress, hotel maid or cafeteria cook. When his boss announced yet another promotion for the hard-working, diligent family man, he described Hidalgo as a young Spanish guy with a good head on his shoulders. Ramón and Catarina took up walking through the city because she wanted him to shake off the jail stagnation and learn something about their new hometown. He agreed and was happy to have the choice to walk or stay home. They made babysitting arrangements with the neighbor girl, fourteen and aching for excuses to get out of her own house. Ramón and Catarina walked in their canvas shoes and cotton shirts, rediscovering the streets they drove each day, learnÂ�ing the character of their city. The walks brought out tenderness in the couple. Ramón, at least, was mildly amused when they held hands or opened doors for each other as they wanderÂ�ed into a grocery store or an all-night dinerÂ�. Walking for as long as they wanted, wherever they wanted, was a liberating experience for the recently freed Hidalgo. He had spent years in the sun and open air, on his own, accounting only for himself. Then he experienced the humiliation of being told when to wake up, go to sleep, eat, shower—everything. The simple act of walking in the evening, with his wife, helped erase those memories and he swore to himself to purge them from his • 36 •

consciousness. He talked about his ambition and his hopes for his family and he did not dwell on the past. For Catarina, the walks were her chance to learn all she could about her husband, especially after his forced absence. He was reluctant to talk about himself but she cajoled, challenged, pleaded and promised, and eventually she was able to extract from him what she needed to know. They saved those days in their hearts and through the years they often relied on what they had learned about one another. There was a house they tried to avoid on their walks. It sat on the corner of a block a few streets from their home and they recogÂ�nized it as a sign that the walk was nearly finished. Peeling paint covered a rickety porch. Scrawny rose bushes competed with dandelions and other weeds for a share of the small yard. The house had an odor that, at first, made Catarina and Ramón think the yard recently had been fertilizedÂ�. They learned that the smell floated around the house and they crossed the street when they saw it. One night Ramón had loosened his tongue and was wrapped up in a long-winded tirade about work and the daily grind. “These gabachos show no respect. I work harder, take on more than anyone, and still they treat me like shit. Robinson’s usually okay, but his real attitude slips out once in a while. He’s ready to blame me if something’s screwed up.” He stopped talking when the smell assaulted him. “It’s dogs, that’s what it is,” he said. “Must be somebody’s pets, all cooped up in that little house. God, how can they stand it?” He tried to sound righteous and walk away but Catarina had stopped. “Look. You can see them in there.” She pointed at the house. “Dogs. Three or four, maybe more, curled up on the floor. There’s one by the screen door, on the porch.” She was like a child watching an exotic caged beast at the zoo. A streetlight lit up the area in front of the house and they saw a cracked and buckled sidewalk, the porch, and a yellow glare from the front room. They had never really looked at the • 37 •

house, as they had the ones that tweaked their curiosity with their elaborate wood lattice work or brick arches, and the animals were a surprise to Ramón. He stood next to Catarina on the street, straining to see into the house. “Come, on. Let’s go. We’re right in the light. Sooner or later someone will see us.” “Someone already has.” Catarina moved her eyes in the direction of the porch and when Ramón followed her signal he saw the old woman sitting on a chair, watching them. “Christ. Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and started to walk but she resisted and pulled away. “Hello. Hello. Nice night, huh?” Catarina waved and put on her good neighbor smile. Ramón stared at her, not wanting to believe she was trying to talk to the woman. He groaned to himself. “What you want?” The woman answered in a harsh, wavering voice. She did not do anything else to acknowledge the couple, not a gesture in their direction, but something moved on her lap. She sat half hidden in darkness and Ramón could not see what she was doing. “Just walking. Meeting some of our neighbors. We live a few blocks away, over on Columbine. Nice night, don’t you think?” Ramón whispered, “How many times you going to ask?” The woman bent forward to hear better and Ramón and Catarina saw the dog on her lap, a puppy she rubbed and petted. “I suppose. Kind of late to be walking around here, ain’t it?” Ramón could see it coming but he could not think of what to do to stop her. Catarina moved along the uneven walk through the overgrown yard, toward the porch. Ramón took a deep breath and followed. “It’s a little late, we walked pretty far,” Catarina said. “How are you tonight?” The dog near the front door stood as she walked up the steps. He sniffed her and rubbed against her legs. “Angel! Back! Get down! Damn dog.” The woman threw something and the dog retreated to his post where he curled up • 38 •

again, his eyes on Catarina. The woman said, “You know, I seen you before. A few weeks ago, you and him come by, walking pretty fast. Don’t see many Mexicans around here. More and more, though.” She paused. “I was right here, sitting with Baby and Angel, just like tonight, just like always. I wondered what you were up to.” “Yes, I think you’re right. We walk around quite a bit. I guess we didn’t see you.” “Hah! You didn’t even know I was here. I seen you hurrying by. You didn’t know I was here.” Ramón tried to deal with his discomfort but the smell was overpowering and he thought the woman was strange. He wanted to leave but Catarina talked on, ignoring his sighs and the shifting of his weight from one leg to another, oblivious to his hints. “No, we couldn’t see you. Hope you don’t mind. But I am curious about the dogs. You seem to have so many.” “That’s right. And they’s all mine. They’s good comÂ�pany, better than people, and they won’t hurt a soul. Sheesh, I have to keep other dogs off them so they don’t get hurt, can’t hardly take care of themselves.” “And they all stay here, with you?”Â� “Right again. We all lives together in my house. My house, you understand? We takes care of each other. Rex been with me more than ten years, and Queenie almost as long. I be lost without them, and they’d be lost without me. So what?” Ramón cleared his throat and interrupted. “We have to go. It’s late and, uh, the lady must be tired. I know I am.” The woman grunted. “Tired? Tired of what? All I do all day is hang around this house. I can’t hardly move no more. Feeding these animals is the only thing I got to worry about. Sometimes I stays here in this chair all night, sleeping off and on. ‘Cept when those damn boys come around to bother me and my dogs, then we lock ourselves inside and stays put ‘till they’s all gone. No, hell no, I ain’t tired.” Catarina moved to leave. She said, “We should go. • 39 •

Goodnight, Mrs. Desantis, and you too, Angel.” The dog yelped when he heard his name. The woman made a sound that came from deep in her throat, and she limply waved them off the porch. The dogs in the house responded to the sound and they waited at the door, watching the woman. She stood, awkwardÂ�ly, and with the help of a cane she shuffled to the door. The dogs followed her to the back of the house. “That’s Mrs. Desantis,” Catarina explained. “She’s lived around here for more than thirty years. I heard about her from people in that neighÂ�borhood improvement committee. They want the city to force her to get rid of the dogs, clean up her place. A few of them stopped by the other day and asked us to help, good citizens and all that. I wanted to see what she’s like. Now I know.” “Will you help?” Ramón asked. “The smell is deadly. She’s likely to catch a weird dog disease and die, then lay in that house for days before anyone notices. Maybe somebody ought to do something.” “I don’t think so. If she’s hurting anyone, it’s certainly not us. I don’t want to interfere. There was an old man back home like her, except his thing was cats. When I was a kid, we called him The Cat Man and we thought up all kinds of stories about what went on in his house. They finally took away his cats. He had to be locked up in the hospital and he died there, just because his cats were gone. It’s not something I want to be involved with now.” They never talked to the woman again, although Catarina forced Ramón to walk by the house many more times. Mrs. Desantis did not appear on the porch when they strolled by, but they saw the dogs in the light of the front room. Nothing came of the neighborhood group’s concerns. One day, Ramón saw a city truck parked for a few hours in front of the woman’s house but she stayed in the house with her dogs until she died. • 40 •

Second Chance Escobar 1960

“He’s an ex-con. Only been out about three years. Mexican gangster who shot a white man.” Harry Veltri forced out the word Mexican as though it were pinned to his tongue. He had sagging jowls and pink flesh. A long strand of vanishing hair swept forward across his head. “There is no way he can be good for you.” Harry emphasized his point with a burst of saliva that showered the manila folder in his hand. “Harry, he’s thirty-one years old, has a beautiful wife and two little kids. He’s the hardest-working man I ever met. He’s smart, articulate, and he’s Spanish-American. Yeah, he’s got a record. But I thought my campaign stood for things like second chances. If Ray Hidalgo doesn’t deserve a second chance, then no one does.” “A chance, yes, Philip, that’s one thing.” Harry threw the folder on his cluttered desk. “But you want him to head up the voting drive in the colored neighborhoods. That’s a big and important job. It’s going to be a close election; it could come down to the votes in those blocks. Can this Ray Hidalgo deliver? You sure he’s the one? Is he even able to vote?” “He did his time, he’s a citizen. He’s got the right to vote,” Philip Robinson replied. Harry rolled his eyes. “He’s been working for me for two years,” Philip added. “In that short amount of time he went from delivery guy to running the warehouse. He learned everything there is to know about the business of building supplies and materials. He can lay brick, carry hod, and repair plumbing, even a little electrical. From what I’ve seen, he does them all well.” • 41 •

Harry shrugged. “So what, boss? There’s plenty of guys who can work, who can do eight hours and overtime without crying about it.” “There’s something about him that other men respect, they want to do what he asks,” Philip said. “He’s a born leader, a real take-charge guy. Don’t worry, Harry, he’s the one. The Negroes and the Spanish will listen to him, which means that they’ll vote for me. I’ll become the next District 10 City Councilman with the help of guys like Ray Hidalgo.” He offered a cigarette to Harry, lit one for himself. Harry flipped his Zippo. “The only thing I’m worried about,” Philip puffed on his cigarette, expelled a plume of smoke. “The only thing is that I’ll be indebted to him. Right now, he owes me. I gave him a job, promoted him, and put him in the campaign. But after Election Day, it’ll be a new ball game. The shoe on the other foot, so to speak. That’s what I worry about.” “You need some insurance.” “Yeah. If I know Ray Hidalgo this won’t be his last foray into politics. For the good of the party, we better keep him on our side. By whatever means.” “I’ll get Petey on it,” Harry said between drags on his smoke. “Have him dig up everything he can about this Mexican superman. We already know about his prison stretch. What else is gonna come out?” Philip tapped his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray sitting on the edge of the desk. “Whatever it is, make sure I know about it and make sure Petey doesn’t blab it all over party headquarters. I like Ray but I need to have him in my pocket. You give Petey’s reports straight to me and no one else. You got that, Harry?” Cigarette smoke covered the men in a gray fog. A lost fly buzzed Harry’s scented head. “Damn, you’d think I never done this before, boss. I swear, Democrats are worse than the Republicans when it comes to this kind of business. I should know, I’ve done enough for both. You liberals always got a hidden agenda, always trying to • 42 •

control the game and the players. Sometimes, I think you just don’t trust people, no matter how much you try to say you’re the damn party of the damn people.” “It’s because we care about the people, Harry, that we do what we can to make sure the results turn out like we want, or close to it. Sometimes you got to break a few eggs to make an omelet. You ever hear that one, Harry?” “Yeah, I heard it. Don’t like it, but it fits you guys to a tee. But I’m just a hired gun, an operative. What the hell do I care? I’ll get you all that you’ll need on this Hidalgo. The rest is up to you.” “Great, Harry. And when I’m on the council and you need some help with your consulting business, or whatever it is you do, it won’t hurt to have this liberal on your side, eh?” “Better on my side than against it. That’s my motto. Play both ends and stay out of the middle. It’s tricky but I do it. See you next week.” He dropped his cigarette butt on the hardwood floor and crushed it with his brown wingtip.

• 43 •

Them That’s Got Escobar 1960

Giddy with triumph, the Democrats drank and ate too much, slapped backs and shook hands until their palms were sore, shouted, laughed and screamed themselves hoarse. The speeches had promised change, progress, solutions. The successful candidates thanked one and all, especially their wives and children; the defeated graciously conceded to their opponents and promised to work with the victors to create a better and more beautiful Escobar, a dynamic New West. When the party faithful dispersed for the night, the party core of eight men sat around a table immersed in smoke, drinking good whisky and cold cans of Coors beer. Ray Hidalgo knew he was separated from these other men, most obviously by physical symbols. His Mexican skin, weathered and thickened along the migrant trails of the United States, testified to a youth that the other men could not imagine. His flat, marked nose hinted at a brutal existence in a more natural, violent world, a world that the other men might read about but never experience. His use of an occasional Spanish word threatened some of the men, subverted their definition of their country and their place in it. But for Ray the differences were deeper and more meaningful than the obvious. He believed he had nothing in common with them, no matter how many times they invited him to dinner at their homes, no matter how many times they praised his efforts, no matter how many times they said, “The party owes you, Ray. Big time.” “We have to build on what we did tonight.” Philip Robinson spoke as the leader even though he had won only one • 44 •

election in his lifetime, and that for a fairly minor city council seat. “You all worked hard, got the voters out, brought in the money. You showed the rest of the state that Escobar, you and me, leads the way in organizing, fund raising, and just plain hard work. We beat Republican ass, hard.” The men shouted agreement. “We put up good candidates, but more than that we did what we had to do to make this thing work for us.” The men shouted again and lifted their glasses in toast to the dawn of the new age of the party. Smiles beamed from the table. They all felt good making the American dream come true. A large, graying man in a plaid sport coat one size too small leaned over the table and talked directly to Robinson. “About the money. We have some debts that need to be paid. Soon. I hope we all are aware of that.” Clyde Ryan was the oldest man at the table, the most experienced in terms of the party and the political wars. “We have to pay off long before you make your run for mayor, Phil. The money guys won’t wait that long, no matter what we promise we’ll do for them when you move into the governor’s mansion. They understand how investments work—there has to be some time for the fruit to ripen—but they also want a show of good faith. A little something now.” “Sure, Clyde,” Robinson said. “We have debts and obligations. We’ll talk about that. But, hell, let’s celebrate one night, okay? Can’t we just get drunk, let off some steam? Tomorrow, Clyde. Tomorrow we deal with business, tomorrow we get back to reality.” He stood up and surveyed the ballroom. “Where’s that radio? We need some music. Where are the women? Patrick, I thought you were taking care of that? Didn’t you call Sid; tell him we were partying until at least dawn, and that we’d need some company? What the hell is going on? What’s the use of winning an election if we can’t have a party?” Someone clicked on the radio. Ray Charles was puzzled. “That old sayin’ that ‘them that’s got are them that gets’ is somethin’ I • 45 •

can’t see. If ya gotta have somethin’ before you can get somethin’, how do ya get your first is still a mystery to me.” The men dispersed from the table and poured more drinks. Ray Hidalgo whispered in Robinson’s ear. “We should talk. The Latin Coalition wants to meet. They believed me when I said you would push an affordable housing program in a couple of the Mexican neighborhoods, they put up the votes, now they want details. You can’t make them wait for too long either.” Robinson grinned at Ray but his words had no smile. “I know what I got to do, Ray. I know the promises you made, the promises that now I have to figure out.” “I only told people what you said you would deliver. There’s nothing I promised that I didn’t clear with you first.” Robinson moved away from Ray. “Hey, amigo. I know that. What I agreed to I will stand by—the broad general outlines of my agenda certainly include a study of affordable housing needs in the city. But, like I said to Clyde, it’s time to party. We’ll set up something as soon as we can. I’ll get Harry on it to schedule a meeting. I’ll make sure you’re in the loop. How do you say, cálmate? Relax. Look, the women are here. Pour yourself a drink, Ray. Celebrate. I won. We won. The people won.” Ray grabbed a bottle off the table and lifted it to his lips. He swigged long and hard. He watched the men grope the women, he watched them dance, and he watched them get drunk. Then he walked out into the chill of the autumn night.

• Catarina helped her husband with his shoes. He reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. He railed against Philip Robinson, called him an opportunist and a thief. “He’s stealing from the voters, Cat. He’s stealing their trust and hopes. He used me, he used our people and now he’ll ignore us. I knew it and yet I went along.” • 46 •

“Isn’t it what you expected, Ramón? You went along because you thought there was a slim chance he might do some good. You knew what you were getting into. You’re not a fool, Ramón. Philip’s better than the opposition—those other cabrones are racists and they don’t try to hide it. At least with Robinson there’s some sympathy. Give him some time. Do the best you can, Ramón. That’s all anyone can do.” “This isn’t my best. I’ll wait and let him have his time. But...” “What? Find another white hope? You’re twice the man. The gabachos don’t understand us. They think we just need to act white and our problems are solved. They don’t care about what we think, or feel, or pray for, Ramón. It will have to be you.” He crumpled to the bed. “Not me, Cat. One thing I did learn. I’m not made for this political bullshit. There’s no way that a Mexican will ever lead anything in this city. The fat cats have it all sewn up. No way. Not now, not without a fight.” He rolled on his side and tried to fall asleep. Catarina gathered his clothes. Her eyes clouded from the perfume scent. She shook her head. Mi amor, she thought. It has to be you.

• 47 •

Thin, Black Snake Escobar 1964 Fifty people sat on metal folding chairs arranged in five neat rows. The Joey Espinoza American Legion Hall buzzed with small talk. The smells of fresh coffee and day-old doughnuts mingled over a six-foot table covered with white paper. The crowd consisted of long-time residents, a few agency bureaucrats, several businessmen and a trio of nervous college students. Philip Robinson strode into the hall with four others: his press secretary, his administrative assistant, his campaign manager, and Ray Hidalgo. They marched to the front of the hall and knotted near the podium. The waiting crowd quit talking. Ray stepped to the podium. “Friends and neighbors. Amigas y amigos. You’ve been asking to meet with Councilman Robinson. You’ve been more than patient; you’ve gone through all the channels. At last, here he is. Let us all hope that he is ready and willing to talk with you and answer your questions about El Dorado Homes. It has taken a long time for this meeting, some say too long. Four years and counting. But now is your chance to find out the truth from the man himself. Ladies and gentlemen, your Councilman, Philip Robinson.” About half of the crowd applauded politely. “Thank you, Ray.” He looked at Hidalgo. “I just want to say here in front of your neighbors that I value your services highly, Ray. You’re more than a precinct captain. You’re a friend.” He turned to the crowd. “You know what I call my buddy Ray? I like to say that he is El Ray, the guy I can count on.” He hoped that the crowd understood his play on words. • 48 •

“It’s always a pleasure to meet with the people of my district, with the heart and soul of District 10. I agree with Ray—this meeting has taken much too long to happen, and I apologize. But the reality is this: I had nothing to tell you that you didn’t already know, nothing until tonight, and tonight, I’ve got great news.” Ray moved away from Robinson’s entourage. “I was on the phone most of the afternoon with the federal housing people, and with the representatives of Toscany Construction.” Robinson’s face glowed a ruddy pink in the harsh white light of the hall. “You all know that in order for our project to move forward we need federal government final approval and funding, and we need Toscany to sign off and agree to the terms of the financial arrangement. But, we were in a Catch-22. The Feds wanted assurances that we had the right contractor for this very important project.” He lifted a thick government manual for the entire crowd to see. “The Federal Housing Administration is extremely pleased with our plans and our designs for El Dorado, they think it can be a premier showcase project for the entire West. But the FHA would not approve unless they knew that we had the right people lined up to build the thing. Rocco Provenza of Toscany has been one of the biggest supporters of this idea since men like Ray began talking about it even before I was elected. Rocco is a businessman, a very successful businessman, and before he committed completely he needed assurances that the federal agency was in for the long haul, that the Feds were going to stand by this project. Rocco wave your hand so that the folks know who you are.” A rotund, balding man in coveralls and a blue work shirt stepped forward, waved his chubby hands and stepped back. He did not smile, did not look at anyone else except Robinson. “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Robinson continued, “I said, enough of the red tape, enough of the delays. So, for almost three hours this afternoon, I had Washington, D.C. representatives on the phone with Mr. Provenza and me. It took a lot of arm-twisting and long, hard negotiating, but I am proud to announce that we have a deal and that we will break ground • 49 •

on the new El Dorado Homes in the spring of 1965.” This time less than half of the crowd applauded. Philip frowned. “Do you all understand what I just said? Maybe you should translate, Ray? Ha-ha. The project got the green light. We are moving ahead with the most ambitious low and moderateincome housing program west of the Mississippi. This is a very big deal, ladies and gentlemen. A very big deal, and I pledge that when you elect me mayor of this great city in just a couple of months, these types of projects for the good of the community will remain high on my list of priorities.” No one applauded. Philip looked at Ray and turned his hands palms up. “What gives?” Ray crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Something is happening here, and you don’t know what is, do you Philip?” He turned to the crowd. “Anyone have any questions for the Councilman?” A slight, fragile-looking woman stood. “Mr. Robinson, I lived here in Escobar all my life. More than forty years. My name is Lydia Salinas. I’ve heard one politician after another make promises they never kept. I got to be frank. I never really expected any different from you. But when Ramón Hidalgo knocked on my door back in ‘60, asking that I vote for you, I went along because I could tell that Mr. Hidalgo was a man I could believe, a man I could trust. You know what he said? He said that honestly he wasn’t all that sure about you but that you were the lesser of the two evils, and that if we all worked together, stayed united, we might get something done.” Something like a half-hearted laugh escaped Robinson’s throat. “That made sense to me,” the woman continued, “so I went along. And, I got to be frank, there have been a few things that have been taken care of, mostly because of Mr. Hidalgo’s efforts. That man works day and night for the community. Can’t say the same for you.” • 50 •

The lanky, big-boned woman who served as Administrative Assistant asked, “Do you have a question for the Councilman, ma’am?” “Yeah, sure. My question is this.” The residents, students, bureaucrats, politician and contractor waited for Lydia Salinas to form her sentences. “If this is such a great project, why did the cost go from one to more than two million dollars, but the number of new homes was cut back by twenty-five? Why did Provenza’s share of the budget go up by thirty percent? What happened to all the money that was doled out over the years for the other housing projects, like Casitas and Casas Grandes, that were never even started? Who asked the FHA to approve increased purchase prices and rents for the people who will move into these homes?” The color drained from Robinson’s face. The Administrative Assistant whispered in his ear but it looked as though Robinson was not listening. He glared at Ray Hidalgo. Rocco Provenza shook his head, then left the hall. He knocked over a folding chairs. The crowd groaned, as one. “I guess someone has been talking about confidential details of this project,” Robinson said, suddenly hoarse. “This kind of talk is dangerous, it puts the entire project at risk. Ladies and gentlemen, I have to ask for your discretion and patience.” Sweat appeared above his upper lip. “What I will tell you is this: I have worked very hard to bring affordable housing to this community. I joined forces with the Mayor’s Office so that we could present a unified package in the interest of safe, sanitary, and decent housing for all. My campaign for mayor has highlighted the need for direct action on the housing needs for all of the people of Escobar. Any kind of disruptive talk at this point could scuttle the entire project. Ladies and gentlemen, trust me on this. When the time comes for you or people you know to move in to their brand-new homes, you will thank Mr. Provenza and me. I have no doubt about that.” A tall, distinguished-looking man rose from the back of the crowd. He wore a burgundy corduroy jacket with gray leather • 51 •

patches on the elbows, gray slacks, and a trimmed, neat goatee. A thin, black snake sat on his jaw line and a faint pachuco cross tattoo rested on his left hand. Ramón Hidalgo felt a nervous shiver travel down his spine. He recognized the scar from a Saturday evening fight many years before, a memento of a confrontation between two young Chicanos and a truckload of farm boys. In a soft, steady voice, Tino García said, “One way to know for sure that we are in trouble is when a politician says, ‘Trust me.’ ” Some in the crowd laughed. “I think the people here are tired of your double talk and smokescreens. Your rude and condescending act is old. You haven’t answered the questions, Robinson. The timing of this announcement has nothing to do with meeting the needs of these people and everything to do with your campaign for mayor. Sinvergüenza. You should have had that phone call with Washington and Provenza three years ago, not this afternoon. All these people voted for you. Leaders have to understand that they lead only because of the will of the people. The real leaders are the people sitting here in front of you Robinson. Now it’s your turn to answer to them.” A few jaws dropped. A couple of hesitant cheers echoed from the back. The students pressed forward, anxious to hear the words of their new professor. “There’s a saying going around these days, Robinson,” García said. “The times, they are a-changin’. Guess what? Your time’s up.” The students stood and applauded. One shouted, “¡Ajúa!” “I don’t know who you are, mister,” Robinson tried to recover, “or who you think you’re talking to. But I know you’re not from around here, never saw you before. You better learn some manners and the way things are done in Escobar.” “In that case, let me introduce myself. My name is Agustín Romero García, and I’m a professor at the university. I know my manners, thank you, and I can guess how things have been done around here. ¿Sabes qué? Those ways are dead. You may not know me, but I know you, and I’m your worst nightmare.” Tino • 52 •

sat down. The stunned crowd waited for Robinson to respond. “I don’t have to stand here and take this. I’m leaving,” Robinson sputtered. He said a few words to Hidalgo then looked for a back exit. As one, the crowd moved from their chairs and surrounded the group at the podium. Hidalgo spoke to the crowd. “You know what this sorry example of a man just told me? He said I was fired. The nerve of this guy. He thinks he can get rid of me and his troubles will go away. Because he’s head white man around here he believes that working for him is a prize of some sort. Well, I got news for Philip Robinson tonight. The kind of news he’s never heard before. I got news that comes from inside, aquí, adentro, en mis tripas.” Robinson and his cohorts could not move. The crowd had them boxed in. The men and women in the hall booed when Ray Hidalgo listed the many broken promises of Philip Robinson—housing, schools, safer neighborhoods. They shouted when Hidalgo described payoffs to men like Provenza for future political support, at the expense of the community. They listened respectfully as Hidalgo chastised himself for believing in the man, for hoping against his better judgment that the politician would do the right thing—and how he had finally accepted that whatever good intentions Robinson had, they were secondary to the accrual of power, to the success of the political machine. Hidalgo paused and the crowd sat back, not sure what would happen next. But they all broke into fervent cheering when Ramón Hidalgo said, “Never again! Never again will I be the lapdog for a so-called leader who does nothing but take advantage of the people. Never again will I make excuses to you or not tell you anything but the truth, no matter who it hurts. You trusted me and I let you down. One thing you can take home with you tonight—I will do whatever it takes to make up for the mistakes I’ve made because of this man and the political system he represents. Whatever it takes.” • 53 •

The crowd exploded with applause, whistles, and cheers. Robinson tried to push through but Hidalgo stood in his way, daring him to move. An elderly man made his way to the front. He cursed in Spanish as he walked. He stood directly in front of the Councilman, pointing his shaking finger. Hidalgo reached for the man but he moved away and ignored Hidalgo’s attempts to calm him down. A clear, sweet voice rose from the back of the room. The cursing man stopped. All heads turned. Soledad Cortez had spent several weeks of the summer in Mississippi registering black voters and the remainder of the summer working with César Chávez and Dolores Huerta and their struggling National Farm Workers Association in California’s San Joaquin Valley. The slim, young student brashly sang We Shall Overcome, a song not familiar to most of the crowd. The other students joined in and some of the audience hummed along, arms linked. Robinson’s press secretary shouted at Hidalgo, “I have to leave now! You can’t keep us here! I need to pick up my kids!” Hidalgo moved to the side and gestured for the crowd to give the secretary room to leave. The crowd closed up behind her, preventing anyone else from moving. Robinson fumed in the middle of the room. The cheering and singing continued for twenty minutes. The students confidently sang their own versions of This Land is Your Land, Blowin’ In the Wind, and De Colores. They were well into America the Beautiful when a loud bang from the front door interrupted their singing. A blue-uniformed squad, led by Harry Veltri brandishing a long wooden club, rushed in. A woman screamed. Hidalgo and García pushed in front of the policemen. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they had in Stockton. One of the policemen nervously announced, “Ray Hidalgo, you and your friends are under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and false imprisonment.” • 54 •

“You can’t lock up a city councilman, you fool,” Harry Veltri added. “You going to arrest the entire neighborhood, Veltri? You ready to take on the people?” Hidalgo asked. The police were outnumbered but they had weapons, already drawn. “Come along peacefully and no one gets hurt,” the officer in charge said. “Any blood spilled here tonight will be on your hands, mister. I don’t think you want that.” The rigid faces of old men, tear-stained young women, children in tow, wide-eyed students and anxious office workers stared at Hidalgo, waiting on his signal for what to do next. “Take me. Your trumped-up charges can’t stick. Let’s get this over with.” Two cops grabbed him by the arms and led him to the door. “That one, too,” shouted Robinson as he pointed at García. Two more policemen grabbed Tino and pushed him behind Hidalgo. The crowd moved only slightly out of the way. Robinson and his associates scrambled through the front door. Hidalgo stopped and the cops stopped with him. “Go home,” he said. “Friday night, we’ll meet here again. This is only the beginning.” The cops yanked him through the door. When they had García outside they slammed the door shut. The Chicanos were taken to an alley several blocks from the hall, dragged from the patrol car and thrown against a wall. Veltri and two others attacked with their clubs. After ten minutes Veltri stopped the beating. The bleeding, semi-conscious men were dragged away. Philip Robinson emerged from the darkness. “Too bad your man never found anything we could use on that guy. It would have made everything a lot easier.” Veltri grunted and shook his head. “I doubt it. That Mexican has a hard head. This ain’t the last we see of him. Or his friend.” • 55 •

Justice Escobar 1964

Josh Abraham liked to tell the story of the year when his parents took him to Russia to meet Joe Stalin. He remembered a very long boat trip with seasickness and rough sailors. There was another long trip in a train; bitter cold and very wet snow. He recalled strange food and strange looking people, at least in the eyes of the boy. But the highlight, “as you can well imagine,” was when the crusty dictator rubbed the boy’s head and said he was a special child. “I never got over that, obviously,” Josh, lifetime member of the Communist Party of the United States of America, would say. Abraham eventually traveled to Cuba where he was introduced to Fidel Castro’s brother. Josh never talked about that visit and his friends were left to guess as to what had happened to Josh on the beautiful but very poor island. Abraham rushed to defend Tino and Ramón, free of charge, of course. He saw it as his revolutionary duty to defend the uprising cultural minorities of the working class. He liked the idea of a good courtroom fight, too. Abraham was a damn good lawyer who knew how to win in a courtroom even when the deck was stacked against him. It helped that Abraham made sure the jury spent several minutes looking at the photographs of Tino and Ramón that Catarina had taken right after the men were bailed out of jail. Each sported black eyes, swollen lips, cuts and bruises. And then Abraham came up with an inspired tactic. He had Soledad Cortez demonstrate what she was doing during the time Robinson claimed he was held against his will. The thin, • 56 •

petite woman stood up from the witness chair and burst into song. Pancho Arango later said that her voice was so authentic and moving that it would not be equaled until 1971 when Ersi Arvizu and El Chicano recorded Sabor a Mí. The prosecutor tried to object to the “theatrics” and “histrionics” but the judge and jury were mesmerized by We Shall Overcome. The song floated to the ceiling of the courthouse and flew outside to the street on the wings of doves, hummingbirds, butterflies, and huelga eagles. A crowd had camped on the courthouse lawn during the trial, the overflow from the courtroom, which was packed every day. Pancho and Soledad spread the word about the trial and organized car pools to get the community to the courthouse. The people set up a camp, carried signs and chanted slogans that demanded freedom for Tino and Ramón, and did all they could to ensure that their presence was heard and felt by the judge and jury. When Soledad’s voice filled their ears, they linked arms, swayed back and forth, and sang along. The judge choked on emotion. Jurors brought out handkerchiefs and even a pair of bruiser deputy sheriffs sniffled and silently mouthed the words to the song. Many in the courtroom later swore that they heard an organ accompanying Soledad’s singing—a golden-toned, heavenly organ. The crowd on the courthouse lawn continued singing after Soledad finished. Someone had a guitar and the people sang anything they wanted, from folk songs to Mexican rancheras to rock and roll. Tino and Ramón were found guilty of a minor charge, disturbing the peace, that required them to pay a fifty dollar fine. Then they walked away, with a new friend and a brilliant lawyer.

• 57 •

Kite Lesson Escobar 1965

When Luis Hidalgo was seven, his father bought a kite and tried to teach him how to fly it. They walked from their house to the baseball field, a wide and empty expanse, and waited for the wind to gather. Luis stood in silence, away from the action. Ramón Hidalgo was all business as he put together the plastic blue and red toy, attached the string and added a tail of old rags. When he finished his preparations he chased away the dogs that sniffed at the kite. He watched the sky for a hint of turbulence, a sign that it was time to launch the toy. “I learned how to fly kites from, Tomás, one of my cousins. He knew so much about everything, son, so much. He was only nineteen when they killed him at Guadalcanal. He would’ve been a great man. Strong, smart. He taught me about life when I was no older than you, Luis. Lessons that a man needs to know to survive. La vida es dura.” Luis nodded, but, as usual, his father lost him. He had heard the story of Tomás many times and he was puzzled by the man’s insistence on remembering. The wind rose to a level that appeared to be right. Luis grabbed the kite and held it aloft, causing the wind to catch it. His father clutched the string. “You should master this art, Luis. And it is an art, after all, as well as a science. Kites show the delicate balance betÂ�ween security and the animal urge to let go, to live life in the clouds. ¿Entiendes, chico?” He jerked the string and the kite jumped. • 58 •

“Let it go, Luis, let the damn thing go.” He led the kite into the sky. It was a beautiful kite. It lazily drifted upward to the full white clouds. Sunlight flashed off the plastic sheen creating red, blue and gold streaks. Ramón reeled out yard after yard of string. The kite hungrily accepted the freedom. The man laughed and hollered and jumped among the weeds. “There it goes, boy, there it goes! Our kite is now flying with the birds and we did it, we broke the law of gravity. My cousin was right.” Luis watched the floating, tiny speck of color. He saw birds near the kite and the tail flapping crazily, and he heard his father’s laugh. “Hijo, take the string, fly this baby.” Ramón offered the ball of string. He laid it in the boy’s hand. “Let it drift with the breeze. No need to give it any more slack, it’s plenty high already.” Luis never held the ball. He felt it slip from his hand, saw it drag along the ground. Slowly it rose, so slowly that for years when he thought of this day it was in slow motion black and white. He ran after the string but it was above his head. Suddenly it took off with more speed than the boy had experÂ� ienced in all of his short life. Ramón jumped for the string but it was gone. He turned, looked at Luis, and then shook his head. He kicked at the dirt with his boot, shrugged weary shoulders and walked back to the house. The kite disappeared over the trees. Luis stared at the empty sky. When he looked for his father, the man was blocks away. Luis ran but he couldn’t catch up to him.

• 59 •

Ya Es Tiempo Escobar 1966

Catarina, Tino and Ramón sat in a bright yellow kitchen at a round wooden table covered with a yellow and white vinyl tablecloth. A near-empty bottle of José Cuervo Especial, smudged shot glasses, twisted lemon slices and a saltshaker shared space on the tabletop. Old-fashioned Mexican music provided a background hum. Occasionally, Ramón or Tino lit a cigarette. The world had changed for Ramón Hidalgo and Tino García. The men worked well together even though in many ways they were opposites. García strutted with volatile energy, too smart for his own good. He knew immediately what to do, what everyone had to do. He grasped the big picture quickly and he seldom hesitated once his mind was made up. Hidalgo played the dynamic image role, the underlying force. He took his time about making decisions, choosing courses of action, and setting the agenda for his fellow activists. Tino clumsily accompanied the song on the radio. “Con dinero y sin dinero, yo hago siempre lo que quiero, y mi palabra la le-e-ey. No tengo trono ni reina, ni nadie que me comprenda, pero sigo siendo el re-e-ey.” “Oh, please,” Catarina groaned. All three laughed heartily. “It’s time, hombre. Ya es tiempo. Past time.” Tino lifted a shot glass to his lips and swallowed the tequila. He chewed on a slice of lemon. “That caga’o Robinson has screwed over the raza one too many times. The guy’s a one-man wrecking crew when it comes to gente. One of Chávez’s reps asked to have the city officially honor the grape boycott and pinche Robinson ordered city services to buy more grapes from California. He put his • 60 •

buddy Provenza in charge of the new stadium for the university, ignoring about a half-dozen Mexican and black construction outfits. Now he’s pulled the plug on the state grand jury investigating the police shooting of Jimmy Medina. Sure, he’s all for civil rights, as long as it doesn’t affect his political future or his pocketbook.” “Tino’s right, Ramón,” Catarina said, “and you know it. You can’t go along with these criminals anymore. I told you years ago that it would have to be you, without any dependence on gabacho politics or politicians. We created the Latin American Civic League to try the mainstream political route. We’ve done voter registration drives, supported Anglo candidates, tried to get progressives on the school board. Always on the go. Pancho and Soledad especially have been busy. That guy follows the sister around like a puppy.” “All the boys do,” Tino said. “She’s the best of the students. It’s great that they’re getting married. She’ll be good for him.” “We’ve been on the constant go for two years now,” Catarina continued. “Lots of excitement, high-energy. But what have we really accomplished?” Hidalgo only grunted. “We should disband the Civic League,” Catarina said. “It’s outlived its usefulness, and create something else. Something independent that will offer the people a real choice.” “Yeah, it’s time.” Hidalgo rubbed his temples. He lifted his own drink. “It’s just that I’m finally starting to turn the corner in my business. Robinson may be a crook but he taught me all I needed to know to set up my own construction supply company. I know—it’s small time. But we’re making money. Hell, I got a piece of that stadium deal. Sure, it’s a small piece, pero . . . I have to balance the company with everything else, with the politics. I’m not sure I’m made out for this. You, Tino, maybe you. You’re the educated man, you got Chicano history down, and you work every day with the students. You’re a big man on campus. Your students love you, they want to be in your classes. It should be you.” • 61 •

Tino shook his head; Hidalgo’s suggestion meant nothing. “You’re a born leader, Ramón.” Tino said. “Cat knows it, I know it, you know it. When you speak on campus it’s always an event. The people will listen to you, like they did when you registered voters for el pinche Robinson. They trust you, man. You’re one of them.” “It’s a tough call, Tino. You got your degree, teaching; you’ll always have a place to work.” “Not sure about that, man,” Tino said. “I piss off people, especially the university administration. My classes get rowdy; they can end up in shouting matches. I challenge belief systems and some don’t like that. There’s faculty that have talked to the university President, warned him that I’m trouble.” “I’m an ex-con,” Hidalgo responded. “Thirty-seven years old, with three kids and no education. I don’t have many options. I got to think about la familia. There’s no way they can get rid of you at the university. Those people don’t want that fight.” Catarina touched his arm. “We’re all right, Ramón. We’ll cope. You’re the smartest damn Mexican I ever met, including Tino.” García shot Catarina a theatrical scowl. “All the books you read, you know more about literature than the professors Tino brings to our events. As for the business, you have some good people working for you. Enrique practically runs the company by himself now. With everything going on around the country, this is the time. And you have Tino to lean on.” She downed the second half of her shot of tequila, made a face and licked a lemon slice. Tino smiled and the black snake along his jaw line stretched and wiggled, burying its head in the neat bush of his goatee. “Chato, no te agüites. We’ve been through a lot in just the last two years. Now we move forward, with la gente. The struggle will not wait for any man, ése. I see it on campus every day. The students are developing in a progressive fashion. They are years ahead of everyone else. There’s a genuine anger about Vietnam, about civil rights. Revolution’s in the air. Look at what’s happening in the South; look at the Watts riot last year. That was war. • 62 •

There will be more riots, more battles in the streets. You can bet on that. Malcolm X’s predictions about this country are playing out, right in front of our eyes. The chickens are coming home to roost. You yourself have been saying that we need to abandon the leaking ship of the two party system—there’s nothing in it for us. Chicanos have to step up or be stepped on, ‘mano.” He knew he would win the debate. He always did. “It’s the beginning of an era of ethnic politics in this country, and you are the man, Chato, the man who can be in the vanguard of that kind of politics.” The light in Ramón’s eyes jumped to Catarina. She squeezed his hand. “It’s time, ése,” Tino repeated. “Past time.” They sat silently for a few minutes. A song with a mixed rhythm fuzzed through the radio. It changed from ranchera to valseada and back to ranchera. Little Joe and the Latinaires backed up Paula Estrada as she worked her way through Paloma Sin Nido. The tempo made Catarina yearn for the Friday night dances that the Civil League had sponsored once a month, every month for a year. “It’s been a strange trip, no?” Ramón slurred his words. The rounds of shots had taken hold. “I never dreamed this is how we’d end up. Who could’ve predicted?” “What I remember, sometimes it’s like a dream,” Tino answered, slowly. He, too, had reached his tequila limit. “I can see you in the fields.” Ramón loved the nostalgia. “You were a mocoso migrant kid, a jive-talking zooter without the zoot suit. And now...?” “You make a deal with the devil?” Catarina asked, only half in jest. Tino studied the golden liquid in his glass. “Blond hair and eyes as clear and blue as the morning sky over the California desert.” Catarina blinked at Ramón, he shrugged back at her. “What are you talking about, man?” Ramón asked. “¿Cuál güera?” • 63 •

Tino topped off his shot glass. He offered the bottle to Ramón and Catarina but they shook their heads no. “There is a happy ending,” he said. “At least tonight, behind too much of this bitter Crow and in front of my two best friends, it looks like a happy ending.”

• 64 •

Playing With Fire Bakersfield, California 1950

A one-story concrete building sat on the side of a small rise in the otherwise flat landscape on the outskirts of Bakersfield. St. Jude’s Catholic Church owned the building and occasionally used it for meetings and special events. But Monday through Friday, eight weeks a year during the harvest season, the hot, airless building was a source of hope for two dozen scruffy children of Mexican and Filipino parents who worked in Bakersfield agriculture. In that nondescript, pathetic structure they were introduced to reading and writing in English, the basics of grammar school arithmetic, and the Pledge of Allegiance. For three hours each afternoon, so as not to interfere with early morning picking, the students listened to Mrs. Martz drone on in proper English and broken Spanish about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain and Emily Dickinson, sums, subtraction and the times tables. Back in 1948, the school was the brainchild of a young and energetic new priest who had a degree in Psychology. When he quit the priesthood in 1955, the school died. But for seven years it represented the best aspirations and the worst responses of the U.S. educational system. Mrs. Martz took on the job of migrant teacher because she was one of the few in the district who spoke some Spanish and she was a regular attendee at Sunday’s eight o’clock mass. Those two facts meant that she was satisfactory to the school administrators and the parish priest. She was in her late forties, widowed, and resigned to spending the rest of her life in Bakersfield. • 65 •

Agustín García’s family had settled in Bakersfield, his father finding more-or-less steady work as a laborer in the California construction boom. Mrs. Martz saw something in the eldest García kid and she did all she could to ensure that he graduated from high school even though she and Tino had to battle huge odds. Mrs. Martz pulled strings and called in favors until she landed a scholarship for Tino that helped with some of the expense for the first year of college. He enrolled at Bakersfield College and posted amazing grades. But she and Tino reluctantly accepted that his higher education most likely was over before it had really begun. Everyone in the family worked, it was the way it had to be. For Tino that meant eventually no more college, no more parttime jobs after classes, no more weekend stints in the fields or doing odd jobs for the growers to earn quick cash. He had to find a full-time, permanent job with good pay. Tino helped at the school, thinking that he could repay part of his debt to his teacher by sweeping, throwing out trash, handling first-aid, and generally taking care of the building. Often he was called on to interpret between the teacher, students, and sometimes the parents, and to translate pages of text for the students. He earned ten dollars a week and he always donated one or two to the church’s migrant school fund. One day Mrs. Martz asked Tino if he could spend a few minutes with seven-year old Antonio, her choice for the smartest kid in the school. “Sure, what’s the problem?” Tino asked. “Oh, not a problem.” She held back. She wanted to say it right. “It’s just something that came up in class. I was talking about the original thirteen colonies and I focused on the history of Maryland and how Catholics settled it. In fact, it was the most heavily Catholic region in the original thirteen. And, well, you know, we sort of emphasize Catholicism around here, we are in a building owned by St. Jude, for goodness sake.” “You got that right. What about it?” Tino could not guess where she was going. • 66 •

“Yes . . . and the students, many of them come from strong Catholic backgrounds. They wear saints’ medals around their necks and their mothers even carry rosaries, and then there’s all this reverence for Our Lady of Guadalupe.” “The Church is a major influence on some Mexicans. It’s a checkered history, but you probably don’t want to get into that.” Tino’s father had told him stories about the Cristero War, about how the military had placed bounties on priests, and how anyone caught harboring a priest usually was executed on the spot. “Uh, no, not now. But maybe we can talk about it sometime. In any event, little Tony has a strong identification with the Catholic Church. Yesterday he surprised me when he raised his hand and said that maybe his family had originally come from Maryland, since they were all Catholics. I had to smile. The boy is a bit mixed up, isn’t he?” Tino laughed. “He said that? That’s the same kid who thinks he’s Hopalong Cassidy. What a pocho. Yeah, I guess he is mixed up. You want me to talk to him?” “Do you think you could?” Mrs. Martz sounded hopeful. “I mean, he should know that his heritage is from Mexico. He should be aware of that, don’t you agree?” “Oh yeah, I agree. He should be aware, he should be proud. Yeah, I’ll talk with him. Maybe give him a Mexican history lesson. Surprising how sheltered some of these kids are from the rest of the world, even from their parents’ world. Some of them are losing their Spanish, just from being in English-speaking schools.” He regretted his words as soon as he heard them. Mrs. Martz frowned. “Well, Tino, they have to learn English. Spanish will do them little good in the modern society. There’s no doubt about that. They’re in the United States now. Some of them are citizens. They can’t function if they don’t speak and write English. That’s a good part of what I’m trying to do. Laying the groundwork for their future success. Why, there are some schools in the district where speaking any language other than English on the school grounds is prohibited. We don’t do that here, of course.” • 67 •

Tino let it go. “No disagreement with you, Mrs. Martz. These kids need to know English. I’ll just make sure Tony knows that what he’s got in his blood comes from Mexico, not Maryland.” “Thank you, Tino. I knew you could help.” She walked away, humming a tune she had heard for the first time that morning on her car radio—a catchy, sweet love song. She decided that she liked Nat King Cole, no matter what the other teachers said.

• Barbara Clifton surprised herself when she discovered that she had a heart and that she wanted to help other people. Ira Clifton laughed at the idea of his daughter volunteering at the migrant school three afternoons a week, but the university was willing to give her advanced credit in Spanish as long as Mrs. Martz wrote her a favorable report. Mrs. Martz was more than grateful for any help she could get, even from a well intentioned but essentially unaware high school student. Barbara wore the pleated skirts and ponytail of her generation and her biggest goal in life was to attend a Frankie Laine concert in Hollywood. She had broken a few hearts already but had vowed to herself that a serious relationship would have to wait until she had settled into college life. She hoped that volunteering at the migrant school would make the summer pass quickly. She wanted out of Bakersfield, as soon as possible. Meeting Tino added a surprising but pleasant wrinkle to the summer. Although her father’s farms employed hundreds of young men and boys who could pass for Tino’s twin, Barbara had never talked with a man so dark and, she had to admit to herself, so sensual that her skin exploded in hundreds of tiny goose bumps. The Clifton name impressed Tino when Mrs. Martz introduced him to Barbara but that passed almost immediately. He • 68 •

was more impressed with the scrubbed attractiveness and long golden hair of the young woman with the earnest desire to help migrant children. During their time together at the school, Tino told Barbara stories about the fields—the hard work, the constant moving from one place to another, the accidents and health risks, and the whipsaw of emotions he experienced with his family and the dozens of relatives he knew from around the country because of his migrant upbringing. In Barbara’s eyes Tino was older and wiser than his nineteen years. On a sticky August evening an hour after the school had closed for the day, they talked in the used blue 1941 Plymouth that Tino’s father had bought the year before. Barbara was her usual quiet self, listening to Tino go on about his family and the way of life he hated and respected in the same breath. Without thinking about what she was doing, she traced her fingers across the scar near his chin. He flinched and she laughed at herself. She said, “Excuse me, I don’t know why I did that.” She blushed and turned away. “How did that happen?” “It was when I was a kid.” Tino had not felt self-conscious about his scar until that moment. “My shoes were caked with mud, I tripped and fell on a short-handled hoe. I don’t think about it anymore.” He had decided she did not need to know about the fight. “I wish it hadn’t happened, Tino. It must have hurt.” She touched the scar again. Its warmth unsettled her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Tino grabbed her. They kissed. She wanted to disappear in his arms but her father’s voice whispered a curse and she drew back. “Now I’m the one that needs to be excused,” Tino stammered. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Barbara moved back to Tino and held his face in her hands. “Yes, you should.” • 69 •

• They could not go out on dates, could not risk a public display. Tino and Barbara believed that was part of the package. They were a conspicuous mix and there were only a few places in Bakersfield where they could be seen together. Those places included a small party at the house of one of Tino’s friends, walks along the dark Kern River or dimly lit irrigation ditches, and slow drives in the Plymouth that he borrowed whenever he had money for gas. Barbara enlisted the help of a cousin, Bobby Clifton. A year older than Barbara and a high school classmate of Tino’s, Bobby was killing time until he had to report to basic training. Bobby had concluded that his lifelong crush on his cousin would not amount to anything except frustration for himself and so he helped her with what he called her forbidden love, at least until the U.S. Army claimed him as its own. They worked out a routine they used several times a week. Bobby would stop by Barbara’s house, make small talk with her parents, and take Barbara ostensibly for a ride in the country, to run shopping errands, or to sit through a drive-in movie. Tino would meet them in the County Fairgrounds parking lot and that’s where he would return Barbara at the end of the night. “You’re playing with fire, Barb,” Bobby warned one night as he drove his cousin to the meeting spot. “Your little scheme is going to collapse any day now. When that happens, your father will kill you, kill me, and I don’t even want to think what he’ll do to Tino. You’re leaving in a few weeks. You should just end it now, before anyone gets hurt.” “It’s easy for you to say that,” Barbara said. “I can’t do what you ask. Tino is special. What we have, what we mean to each other is special.” She wanted to sound sure of herself. “I’ll have to tell Daddy. I can’t keep this a secret from him. Tino means too much to me. Someday, Daddy will understand. If it makes me happy, why should he care?” • 70 •

“You got a lot of growing up to do, Barb.” Bobby tapped the dashboard with a rhythm heard only by him. He could not sit still when he was near his cousin. “If you tell him, if you reveal your thing with the Mexican, so what? You’re going up to Stanford. You’ll be gone. You think Tino’s going to follow you, or wait around for you? He’s already lined up a job in Oildale. He doesn’t have the money to shadow you while you’re in college. Besides, I’ve seen that guy in action.” Bobby’s hands smacked the dashboard harder and faster. “He was the school Romeo. He can get any Mexican girl he wants, and apparently just about any white girl he wants, too. He’s a lover boy from way back. He’s piled up quite a list of conquests and it looks to me like you’re just another notch on his gun, Barb.” His head rocked to the silent tempo. “A white notch, something strange for him.” She slapped Bobby. Not hard, not with any real fury, but definitely as a signal that Bobby had crossed their long-standing, mutual boundaries. Bobby rubbed his cheek. The rhythm was gone. “Okay. I’ll let you have that one. You do what you think you have to do. Just take it easy, Barb. Be careful and don’t act stupid. Okay?” “I’m sorry, Bobby. I know, you’re trying to help me. I’m sorry. I’ll be careful. We, Tino and I, are very careful. We won’t get you in trouble. But I guess I’m worried. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what will happen when I go away to school. I just don’t know.”

• Tino and Barbara huddled in the Plymouth in a dark corner of the parking lot, waiting for Bobby. They hugged and kissed and Barbara softly cried because she had less than a week before she had to leave for Stanford. “It’ll be all right, Barb,” Tino said. “Write me and I’ll write you. On the weekends I can try to get away to see you. When • 71 •

I start making real money I’ll call, visit more often. It’ll be all right.” She wanted to believe his words, but that night, waiting in a deserted parking lot for the masquerade to play out, the deadend route their love had taken was all too evident. They pushed back from each other when they heard the squeal of tires and the grind of a hard, fast gearshift. A large dark sedan screeched to a stop beside the Plymouth and two men jumped from the passenger side. Tino’s door whipped open. One of the men grabbed him and flung him to the asphalt of the parking lot. The man punched and kicked Tino before he had time to defend himself. Barbara screamed but the second man grabbed her, held his hand over her mouth, yanked her from her seat and pushed her in the sedan. Ira Clifton emerged from the driver’s side. He watched for a few minutes as his man continued the beating. Finally he said, “Enough.” Barbara struggled and twisted in the back seat but she was helpless. “Let’s go over it one more time,” Clifton said to his man. “I want to make sure you understand.” He barked quick and sure orders. They moved away from the sedan. Tino groaned on the asphalt. “Take her to the house. Her mother has her stuff packed and ready. Doctor Wilkins will be there. He’ll give her something to calm down. Then, you drive her up to Stanford, tonight. They’re waiting for her. You go straight to Dean Hutchins, at the address I gave you. Talk to no one else. He’ll know what to do. Don’t foul this up.” The man said, “I got it, boss. Jim and I will take care of it. Don’t worry.” Clifton dug his index finger into the man’s shirt. “If there are any hitches, Ronnie, you’re finished. With me and anyone else in California. Am I clear?” “Yeah, boss. I understand.” He shrugged off Clifton’s finger. “We take Barbara home and Doc Wilkins gives her a shot so that she sleeps. Then we drive her up to Stanford, leave her • 72 •

with Hutchins. By the time she comes to, we’re gone and your brother-in-law is telling her the story of how this greaser ran with his tail between his legs, for parts unknown. I get the plan, boss.” He climbed in Clifton’s car and drove away. Barbara slumped in the back seat. Tino moaned. Clifton lifted him to his feet, then shoved him in the passenger side of the Plymouth. Clifton sat behind the oversized steering wheel. “I liked this car when it first came out. Easy to handle. Good pep for a coupe. Your father made a good buy.” He turned to Tino. “You shouldn’t have trusted Bobby. But you probably didn’t have a choice. Right, Tino? It is Tino, isn’t it? I have doubts about Bobby but he knows how his bread gets buttered. When I heard the rumors about you and Barb and I confronted him, at first he denied everything but I could see he was lying. It didn’t take long until he broke down. He may be going to the army but his future is right here in Bakersfield, working for me. He wouldn’t jeopardize that.” “You can’t keep us apart,” Tino said through bloody teeth and a swollen lip. “Not even you can do that.” “Heh-heh. That’s good. I like that spirit, Tino.” He paused and watched Tino grimace as he clutched his side. “Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t like anything about you. I could destroy you for what you’ve done to my daughter.” Tino shook his head. “No, we haven’t...” “Shut up.” Tino rested his head on the seat. “The way I look at it,” Clifton continued, “if I try to keep you away from Barbara, she’ll do everything she can to see you, to rebel against what I say. Especially after tonight. It’s going to take a while for her to come back to me. But my relationship with my daughter is only one part of this problem.” He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. “The bottom line is that I can’t have her with you,” Clifton said. “She knows that, even you must understand that. There’s • 73 •

too much at stake for my only child to mix up with someone like you. It can’t happen, so it won’t happen.” “I can’t breathe,” Tino said. “I’ll get you to a nurse,” Clifton responded. “You’ll be okay. It’s not that serious. Ronnie may be a dolt but he knows what to do when it comes to giving a good beating. The blood is for show—to make an impression. I think you were impressed, right?” “Hijo de la chingada,” Tino cursed. Clifton laughed. “That’s a good example of what I mean. You can’t get anywhere spouting that gibberish. It’s not even good Spanish, if there is such a thing. How in the hell Barb ever got involved with you, I’ll never understand. That damn migrant school. I knew it was a mistake, in more ways than one.” Tino grunted. “Like I said, Clifton. I’ll see Barbara whenever I want. You can’t stop me unless you kill me.” “Don’t get too smart for yourself, Tino. Killing you is an option. One that I could go with easy enough. No one in this entire county will care if you’re gone after tonight, except your parents, I guess, and they probably got so many kids that after a day or two they won’t even notice your absence.” Tino jerked at Clifton but he had to fall back in pain. He groaned again. “Enough bullshitting. Here’s how it is. Your old man’s got a pretty good job, laboring and carrying hod for Stevens Construction. Your mother cleans houses for a dozen or so women too busy or lazy to do their own sweeping. You all pay rent on a small but adequate house. Real nice, I drove by earlier. In another couple of weeks you start full-time one one of the oil rigs.Things are looking up for the García family.” He tossed the cigarette out the window. “And yet, I can change it all, tonight. Your old man gets fired and everyone thinks he’s a drunk. He won’t work in Bakersfield again. Except for the fields. Anyone can work there, right? He’s getting on in years, though, to go back to that, eh? Then I blacklist your mother as a thief so that she can’t clean another house for a white woman, and since • 74 •

white women are the only women who hire housekeepers, that ends it for her. You’ll lose the job in the oil field, be lucky if you don’t also lose an arm or a leg before it’s over. Roughnecking is dangerous, especially for a smart but uneducated Mexican boy. That’s what my friends in Oildale tell me. Finally, you and your family end up evicted from that nice house. Tomorrow night you all could be sleeping on the streets.” “You’re crazy, loco. You can’t do any of that.” “You really do need an education, Tino. You got smarts, so I’ve heard, but you don’t have the education, you don’t know what’s up, do you? Sneaking out with my daughter proves just how ignorant you are. I can do all I said and a lot more.” Tino felt faint. Clifton was a shadow sitting where Tino’s father had sat so proudly when he drove the car home from the used-car lot. A blood smear streaked the dark shine of the dashboard. Clifton’s voice poked at Tino from the darkness. “You will not see my daughter again. Never talk with her, never write her so much as a postcard. If you meet her on the street you will go the other way. In fact, you’re leaving the state, and you aren’t coming back, at least not until Barb’s married and over you.” “It won’t work, Clifton.” “Yeah it will, and here’s how I know it will. I won’t try to beat you into doing what is right. I know I can’t scare you off. This thing tonight was more for my benefit. It had to be done. But it’s not what will keep you away from Barb.” Tino sat up. Clifton squinted through the windshield. “That teacher of yours, Martz? The blubbering widow almost cried when she talked about you. She says you’re one smart Mex and that more than anything you want to finish college. You got ambition, Tino. We already know college is damn near impossible, don’t we? For sure it ain’t going to happen if your old man is tossed from his job. But your father’s a great worker; Joe Stevens talks him up all the time. He’s going to get a promotion any day now. Labor foreman. Joe will take • 75 •

care of him. Permanent employment. Meanwhile, your mother has a big fan in Mrs. Hooks, the old crone in that big house by the college. Mrs. Hooks wants to have your mother for herself only, kind of like her own personal assistant. At least, Hooks will want that after her favorite niece, my wife, talks to her about it. Real good money working for that old bat, I guarantee. So, your family’s taken care of, at least as much as anyone can foresee. That leaves you. You and your college education.” Tino stared at Clifton. “I’m going to set up my own scholarship fund for smart but uneducated Mexican boys who almost ruined my daughter. Right now, there’s only one candidate for the scholarship. The fund pays everything as long as the Mexican boy goes out of state and doesn’t come back, not even for visits with his family, until I say there’s no longer a problem. I’ll get you into a respected school back East, where you can amaze everyone with your smarts. Who knows, you might even find another white girl to drag down. All you have to do is write a letter to Barb and tell her that it’s over, it was only a fling and you’re sorry you caused so much trouble for her family. You’re even going to say that tonight’s episode really wasn’t a big deal—it kind of knocked some sense into you. You’ll throw in a line about how her father was just acting in her best interests and that after we talked you saw how right her old man was. You’re going to tell her goodbye and you’re going to write it in a believable and convincing way.” Tino coughed and shuddered. “But if you ever try to contact Barb,” Clifton continued, “I’ll pull the plug on the college tuition, I’ll ruin your family, and I’ll get you arrested for something. I’ll make your life hell. Take your pick, kid. College or prison? A comfortable future for your family or ruin? Your choice.” Tino opened the car door, bent over and spit blood. He leaned back in and shut the door. “First we visit the nurse,” Clifton said. “Then you write that letter.” • 76 •

•

Tino finished just as he sipped the last of the tequila. “Christ, bro’. How many times you been beaten up?” Ramón asked, not sure of what else to say. Tino ignored him. “You said it was a happy ending.” Catarina was puzzled. “What’s so happy about that story?” “The Mexican kid got his education, that’s what. He earned a respectable degree in a place so foreign to what he had known his entire life that he almost forgot who he was. Years later, he went back to his raza, with the degree and the education that Clifton thought he needed. I came to see what he meant, I got it.” His shoulders gave in to the weight of his story. “And men like Clifton will suffer the consequences of my education. For me, that’s a happy ending.” “And la Barbara? What about her?” Catarina asked. “Barbara?” Tino hesitated and for an instant Catarina thought she had asked the wrong question. “My mother told me that Barbara tried to find me once, around Christmas the year I went off to school. But my mother had instructions to tell her that I had hit the road, looking for my fortune, and that I had run off with some floozy. Guess it worked. I heard later that in her sophomore year she married one of her professors and followed him to Montana, a thousand miles from Bakersfield. The guy moved to Missoula to write the great American novel.” The radio station played an up tempo version of Cuatro Milpas. Ramón’s heart skipped a beat as he reached for Catarina’s hand. “You ever see or speak to her again?” Ramón asked. “Nel. Nunca. But that’s what’s funny, ’mano.” “Funny?” “That night, when Clifton had me beaten up, I had already accepted that she was leaving and that I was staying and that we weren’t going to make it. We were as different as two people could be and still manage to find something to talk about with • 77 •

each other. I knew that messing around with the rich man’s daughter was a mistake. Before I got pulled out of that car by Clifton’s men, I was going to try to get into her pants one more time, but no matter what happened, it was over, ése. It was over.” Tino managed to chuckle as he said the words. His mouth was grim, his jaw muscles clenched. Catarina punched him on the arm. “Cabrón, Tino. You had me feeling sorry for you, but once a player, always a player and she was just part of the game.” She winked at Ramón. “Cabrón,” she repeated.

• 78 •

II: El Rey y volver, volver, volver

The People’s Strength Paradise 1968

“The UMAS Executive Council wants us to put a name on the organization, something for easy identification. They’re into acronyms.” With little enthusiasm, Tino García passed on the message from the campus student group. He read from a worn pocketsized notebook with a black cardboard cover. “That means we finally acknowledge that we, in fact, do have an organization.” Ramón Hidalgo, Catarina Hidalgo, Soledad Cortez Arango, and the few others in the leadership circle listened. Tino had made it clear several times that he did not favor creating a structure for what he and Hidalgo did. He thought they could exist as something like consultants to the Movement. He had introduced the legend of Aztlán to Escobar and then extended it with political ideology. He gave highbrow lectures on Chicano Nationalism and Self-Determination. He had developed a theory to prove there was a Chicano Nation. He was Hidalgo’s brother in politics but he was on a different planet. After the disbanding of the Latin American Civic League he had anticipated becoming involved in several different political actions without formal membership in any group. But two years later Catarina won the day. She wanted their activism to have a focus and a center, and that required an institution, Chicano-style, a replacement for the Civic League. She liked to say, “As far as I am concerned, Ramón is the center and the focus is raising hell with the power structure. The rest of us, and those who join us in the future, are the organization.” She spread her vision of an expanding association that expected wholehearted commitment and demanded allegiance. • 80 •

She believed in structure and close-knit relationships. She believed in family. “They have any suggestions for names?” she asked. “The students are always coming up with something. There’s a new group in Califa—MEChA. A stroke of genius, especially after UMAS and MAYO and MACE and some of those other lame names they’ve adopted. All the student groups will be MEChAs by next school year. I like it myself.” Several in the group nodded their own approval. A squeaky fan moved the hot, stale air from one corner of the room to another. The men wore T-shirts, jeans and boots. The women had on peasant blouses with intricate embroidery, sandals and turquoise jewelry. A slightly deaf, arthritic dog slept near the door. Catarina had found him on the campus, looking for food. She brought him home just as she brought home other strays—human and animal—cleaned him up and named him Xolotl. Ramón had objected, half-heartedly, to keeping the dog, but he had serious problems with the name Catarina had chosen. “That’s asking for bad luck,” he argued. “Why not give him a good old-fashioned name like Rin-Tin-Tin or Oso or Manchas or Lassie? How about Spike? That’s a good name—he’s not a bulldog but he might like that name.” The dog became Xolotl, although Ramón always referred to him as perro. “The UMAS President, Oscar Vigil, said it should be something that reflects the culture and the politics, of course.” Tino continued with his message from the students. “Something heavy, as he put it. That vato is a tripper. You all know that kid?” Several in the group nodded. “He’s cool. But he’s headstrong, man. Stubborn.” “He’s just young,” Soledad said. There were a few mumbles of agreement. “We’re not exactly viejitos,” Tino responded. He looked at his notes. “Other than that, the students weren’t too helpful. They want a formal name so that in their public events, their flyers, their funding requests, they can refer to us as something • 81 •

other than Ramón Hidalgo’s Family and Friends.” Everyone in the room smiled. “Ramón? What do you think?” Catarina asked. “I suppose it has to happen. Everything changes. The world is in a state of flux. Nineteen sixty-eight is an amazing year.” The past two years had aged Hidalgo considerably. He and his friends had built off the residue of the Civic League’s goodwill and become even busier, staging several events. The constant activity and the rapidly changing political environment of the United States required him to be a full-time revolutionary as he said, often. Streaks of gray had emerged in his thick, black hair and Catarina had noticed radiating lines around his eyes. “A couple of years ago we disbanded the Civic League because we thought it had outlived its usefulness. Since then, it’s been nonstop. Support for the Farm Workers, anti-war organizing, working with student groups to make their campuses relevant to la raza. Trying to convince students to come back to the community, to help and not exploit. We’ve challenged police brutality and cronyism in the Mayor’s Office. We’ve put our support behind progressive and leftist political candidates, even non-Chicanos. Tino and I have traveled throughout Aztlán. Denver has Corky Gonzales and the Crusade for Justice and their work with urban youth. César Chávez and the United Farm Workers have the Union. Down in Texas, José Ángel Gutiérrez is organizing like crazy—he’s talking about a nationwide raza political party. Reies López Tijerina of Tierra Amarilla has been hitting it hard with his Alianza and the struggle for land rights. Conferences, meetings, demonstrations. I must have given a hundred speeches this year already. I think we’ve met with every lefty organization and radical spokesperson in the country, from Martin Luther King to Russell Means to the Students for a Democratic Society. Some of our work has paid off, some of it hasn’t. But we’ve stayed together because we know what we’re doing is important. You are my family, my friends. To ensure that our work continues, we should be more open about who we • 82 •

are. I think the students are correct. We create something solid and come up with a name. Many of them want to join us but there isn’t anything to join.” Several in the group expressed their agreement with a Right on! or an ¡Órale! “My business is doing well. The way we have the connection has worked. The business can help pay expenses. With a recognizable identity we can go after the rest of what we need—donations, fund-raisers, charitable grants, whatever it takes to keep us in operation. As long as there are no strings attached. Each one of us, and whoever comes on board, will have to donate. We need funding, we have to provide much of it ourselves.” “Be careful about outside funding,” Tino cautioned. “No government grants, and foundations should be our last resort. Dangerous to rely on the Man in that way. We support ourselves, we must be self-sustaining.” More right ons and órales. “I’m not one for acronyms,” Ramón continued. “Too bureaucratic, like the government. Remember that UMAS started as the United Mexican American Students. The name expressed a clear and direct idea and the acronym was handy but unintentional. MEChA is more obvious. Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán. Don’t you think those young vatos did a bit too much mota one night and tried to think of the most incendiary name they could come up with, and then they fit in the words? What could be more fiery than a match?” Again, everyone smiled. “But if we must pick a name, we should start with what we are, what we do, and where we’re going. We answer those questions and we’ll have our name.” The small group turned as one to Soledad. She relished these types of questions. She had perfected her speaking style and could bring it on in an instant. “We are a guiding force for the people.” Soledad began slowly. “We respond to the Establishment’s racism, exploitation and harassment by providing a light that exposes the • 83 •

corruption. Unlike the pigs, we really do serve and protect. We cherish our Chicano culture and want to preserve it. We want to learn our Chicano history, not the history of the oppressors. We are working for liberation, in the same sense that other Third World struggles are fighting for liberation. We are in a neverending struggle because nothing changes without struggle.” She jumped to her feet and paced back and forth. “The Black Panthers talk about being the vanguard of the Movement. They have picked up the gun and made a principle out of Chairman Mao’s slogan that all power comes from the barrel of a gun. They advocate self-defense and self-determination for people of color. The most progressive elements understand the legacy of Malcolm X and his assassination in 1965.” She stopped pacing and stood with her hands on her hips. “The history books will look back on 1968 as a watershed year. All around the world, revolution is on the agenda. From Mexico City to Paris, from Czechoslovakia to Northern Ireland, South Africa to Vietnam. Student takeovers of university buildings all over the country. The San Francisco State College student strike has the potential to create the first real people’s university, free of imperialistic propaganda and corruption. Hell, people, Chicano high school students and teachers walked out of classrooms for eight days in Los Angeles. We have to put ourselves in context with the changes, from the hippie counterculture to the antiwar marches to the civil rights demonstrations and the riots in the cities. Against the individualistic excesses of psychedelic music and drugs and free love, Chicanos have to stand for familia, communidad, and united struggle.” Her audience nodded in unison, some balled their fists and raised their arms. “I say that we are the Chicano vanguard, the Chicano voice of self-determination. I say we are what the people mean when they shout, Chicano Power!” Her gaze swept over the group. “Any of that give you any ideas?” • 84 •

They were in the basement of a house they had rented years before for the Civic League in the town of Paradise, an hour from Escobar. Hidalgo bought the place and the leadership circle sometimes met there when they did not want to risk prying eyes. They had come to accept wariness of surveillance and the need for security. They believed that in the Paradise house they were secure and they could say whatever they wanted. Posters and Chicano art from around the Southwest hung on the walls. They were surrounded by appeals to support great ideas: anti-war, anti-racism, pro farm worker, pro Chicano culture, pro working class. “Guiding Force. A Light for the People. Vanguard. The Struggle. Chicano Voice.” Ramón ticked off the words that had struck a chord with him. “It should be in Spanish.” “La Luz. La Vanguardia Del Pueblo. La Voz. La Lucha. None of that grabs me.” Catarina quickly dismissed her own suggestions. “Anyone?” “Fuerza.” Tino spoke up. “La Fuerza.” He thought a second. “La Fuerza de la Gente.” “That’s not bad,” Catarina said. “It might grow on me. La Fuerza de la Gente. No, wait. How about La Fuerza de la Raza? The strength of the people.” Tino slowly nodded and everyone else muttered their approval. Ramón made it official. “It’s settled, then. Whatever we are, whatever it is that we do, we are La Fuerza de la Raza. The people’s strength.” The others applauded. “At least until we come up with something else,” he added.

• 85 •

El Rey Escobar 1968

People who called themselves Chicanos, Chicanas, activists, radicals, or revolutionaries migrated from around the country to Escobar because they knew something important was going on with Hidalgo, García and the rest. Poets, artists, musicians, organizers, student leaders, and politicians trekked to Escobar and paid their respects to the man who had stood up against the state and federal machines, who had shared the stage with Martin Luther King and César Chávez, and who had described a vision of a future without racism, without class exploitation, and without war. Hidalgo was admired, respected, often called a real macho, a counter to Hollywood stereotypes of the strong, silent, womanizing Latin male. Ramón Hidalgo had become the King, el jefe, the boss. The membership and character of the organization changed several times but there remained one constant—El Rey was the leader. His followers read the organization’s newsletter for Hidalgo’s regular column where he outlined his plans, ideas and goals. Slowly, he built a reputation as a serious thinker, a reputation that Tino García had claimed from the beginning. The membership learned to listen for certain words from Hidalgo, especially when he said that he knew something “adentro, en mis tripas.” That message usually meant someone was in deep trouble, at a dead-end, no excuses, no forgiveness. Soledad clenched Pancho’s hand. They sat in a corner on the living-room floor of Ramón’s house, separated from the others. Only a few women attended these meetings where alcohol and drugs subverted the dialog and egocentric posturing • 86 •

replaced debate and analysis. She hadn’t wanted to come but Pancho believed it was important to stay involved in all aspects of La Fuerza, including the periodic meetings that someone had labeled “strategy and tactics.” Soledad thought the meetings were simply excuses to drink and act tough, to bluster and provoke. There was nothing strategic or tactical about the gatherings. She hated the talk about guns and violence, the casual references to armed struggle and revolution. Her rhetoric could be as fiery as anyone’s, including Tino or Ramón, but she had not succumbed to blind anger. She had seen madness unleashed in the South, watched as dogs tore flesh and wooden clubs subdued peaceful marchers, and she had tried to comfort mothers whose children had been buried in a church leveled by dynamite. Spit, rocks, and curses had been hurled at her in California fields when she picketed for basic workers’ rights—toilets, drinking water, a decent wage. She had been sprayed with tear gas and pesticides, arrested for loitering and publicly called a “Mexican whore.” She was at the jail in 1964 when Ramón and Tino were released; the massive bruises, dried blood, and open cuts had shocked her. Soledad understood the emotions that violent acts produced, but she refused to surrender to them. A new member of the organization, a man she knew only as Paco, stood near the center of the room. He lectured to three university students, including Oscar Vigil. The smell of marijuana followed the trio. “It’s now or never, gente. The time has come. I’ve seen it in other places, the people are rising and the pigs are ready to fall. Their economic system is collapsing, their war machine is impotent, the justice system is racist, and we all know what their education system doesn’t do. If we don’t seize the time, we will condemn ourselves to another four hundred years of oppression.” “So, are you saying that we all pick up the gun?” Oscar asked, not sounding very serious about his question. • 87 •

“I can’t make that decision for you, Oscar, but I will say that when the circumstances are right, the vanguard knows how to take advantage, knows when to make the move. Resistance— that’s what revolutionary leadership is all about.” Soledad couldn’t help herself. She laughed at the words. Paco looked down at Soledad and Pancho. “Something funny, sister? Something I say sound like a joke? ’Cause no one else is laughing.” Pancho tensed and stood up. Soledad let go of his hand. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s that sometimes the words sound silly, even though I’ve said them myself. I’ve used the slogans just like you. But it can get too heavy, brother. Like I said, I’m sorry I laughed.” “You’re Soledad, right? I thought you were more together than this. I heard a lot about you, smart and hip and a true fighter for the people. Now, I don’t know. Maybe you’re only another ruca. Not a fighter, just a lover, eh?” “That’s enough, bud.” Pancho said. “Take it somewhere else.” Soledad stood up. “Let’s go, Pancho. He’s drunk, like everyone else here, including you.” Ramón walked in from the kitchen. He watched the conflict unfold. Paco smiled when he saw Hidalgo. “Yeah, Panchito. You and your lady friend should leave. All this talk about revolution and guns might give you bad dreams. You two are heading home to bed, right? Lucky man.” Hidalgo grabbed Pancho’s wrist, stopping the fight before it started. “Easy, Pancho. You all are acting like children. Go on home.” Pancho eased back. Without letting go of Pancho, Hidalgo turned to the still-smiling Paco. “And you, shut up. You talk too much. You’re new around here. Show some respect.” “Sure, sure. Ramón. No trouble. I’m just wound up, you know? Too much going on these days. Sorry, bro. No disrespect, okay?” He held out his hand to Pancho, who finally reciprocated with the Chicano handshake. • 88 •

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ramón,” Pancho said when he finished with Paco. He looked around for Soledad. She waited for him at the front door. “I’m sorry, Sol. That asshole . . .” “Don’t say anything. It’s always like that, in one way or another. And then it’s like I’m not even in the house. It all comes down to the men, to the acting out, and then to Ramón fixing it, between you men. It’s getting old and I’m tired of it.” She hurried to their car. Music and laughter floated from Ramon’s house. Pancho looked back once, then he sat behind the steering wheel of his car. He didn’t know what to say to Soledad.

• 89 •

¡Ya Basta! Escobar 1968

Oscar Vigil tapped the small square windowpane with a four-inch miniature hammer. The glass cracked with a low tinkle. He carefully removed the broken shards, slipped his gloved hand inside, unlocked the door, and he was in. Light shone indirectly from the street and another faint glow slipped underneath the closed door of a back room. Oscar hoped it was a forgotten desk lamp. He had watched the place for more than hour. No one should be in the house. He pocketed his ever-present sunglasses, quickly surveyed the foyer, living room, the arched entry to the kitchen. Leather couch, leather recliner, portable television with rabbit ears, newspapers and magazines scattered on the hardwood floor and a glass coffee table that sat in the middle of a dark, thick rug. Paintings with intertwined geometrical shapes hung in the shadows along the narrow hallway. Oscar liked the place. This was his idea of a bachelor’s pad and, apparently, he and Mayor Robinson thought alike. Too bad the Mayor wasn’t a bachelor. He played the role, though. Oscar was convinced that he would find evidence that the Mayor dabbled in more than abstract art. The best would be a photograph of the Mayor with his girlfriend, in bed. But not likely. Too kinky. A letter, a journal, a note. An address book. Anything that would connect the Honorable Philip Robinson to Shannon Tierney, most recently homecoming queen at the Escobar campus of the State University. The Mayor’s current favorite plaything had gushed her secret to her closest sorority sister, who, in turn, had confided • 90 •

in her best friend from back home, Silvia Cruz, who happened to be Oscar’s cousin and who recently had joined UMAS. Oscar reasoned that La Fuerza could use whatever he found. Hidalgo and his crew were always battling the Mayor but Oscar was certain that his act of revolutionary crime was particularly timely. The Mayor had aspirations for the Governor’s mansion and had already announced his campaign. These were exciting times, Oscar often said. The Escobar UMAS chapter had helped sponsor the Escobar Mud Bath Review—a two-day bash of music, parties, and good times. Canned Heat. Country Joe and the Fish. Taj Mahal. UMAS had been expecting a new band from the Bay Area that everyone was excited about—the Santana Blues Band, but even though Oscar had spent many hours working on getting them to show up, the band couldn’t make it. Still, it had been a great two days. Yeah, exciting times. Free love, open marriages, pot smoke floating in the air, the trendy triumvirate of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. But not for a straight-arrow politician who counted on the conservative wing of his party for the crux of his support. A messy scandal about an affair with a college student, that had to include booze and drugs, would derail Robinson’s campaign train. If only Oscar could find the proof. He looked in desk drawers, kitchen cabinets and trashcans. He pored through books, magazines, and old mail. Nothing mentioned Shannon Tierney. Nothing connected the Mayor to the college beauty. If anything, the house looked like it served as a handy escape for the Mayor when he needed a solitary break from the public, but nothing more. Oscar decided to can the operation. He had spent too much time in the house, and suddenly he was afraid. He had not found anything that could be used against Robinson but he had placed himself in jeopardy. “Christ,” he muttered to himself. “Only one more semester to graduate.” He repressed his panic and reached for the doorknob under the broken window. The door swung open in his face. Oscar jumped back. • 91 •

Officer James Sutton aimed his weapon at Oscar. “Hold it! Hands up!” Oscar stumbled backwards. He tripped over his feet and fell. He rolled to his side. He could not see the cop. His ponytail had come undone and his long, rangy hair flopped in his eyes. He crouched on his knees. “Don’t shoot,” he said. Sutton bellowed, “Down on your belly! Don’t move. Get in the light where I can see you!” He shouted contradictory orders and gripped his gun with both hands. He recognized the burglar as the Spanish kid brought in months ago for spray-painting walls with “Off the Pig!” The commie lawyer, Abraham, had the case thrown out on bogus free speech grounds but the kid’s message had been clear. Kill cops. The burglar slumped in the dark. Sutton could see only a pair of raised hands holding something—a gun. Sutton flinched, his own gun fired. The hands pointed at Sutton. The cop shot again. Sutton rushed to the burglar. The floor around the body already was slick with blood. A small hammer lay next to Oscar’s outstretched fingers.

• The city simmered for three days. Older Chicanos and Mexicanos gathered on street corners to curse the police, the Mayor, the white establishment. They angrily denounced the killing of Oscar Vigil as the last straw, another murder of one of their children that they could not accept. As the rhetoric heated up, others joined the street-corner assemblies. Longhaired students and hippies displayed buttons that said Solidarity with the Chicano People! Regal-looking African-Americans wore dashikis or leather jackets. Haggard veterans sported faded Army field jackets. Escobar policemen had orders to disperse the gatherings • 92 •

before the crowds grew too large. Those orders were carried out diligently. Residents and police clashed numerous times; the city jail filled with detainees arrested on suspicion, waiting for formal charges. Two days after the shooting, several young men beat an Escobar policeman and took his weapon. Policemen dressed in bulletproof jackets and helmets searched homes. They brandished tear gas rifles, canisters and grenades, and desperately looked for the stolen gun. The only arrests from the searches were for possession of illegal drugs. A search warrant was issued for Ramón and Catarina’s house, the residence of “known associates and collaborators” of Oscar, but a court clerk tipped off Josh Abraham about the impending warrant. Josh waited for the cops at the house and when the warrant was served he was on the telephone to a judge he had alerted to be ready. The judge accepted Josh’s challenge to the warrant and it was quashed before the police could enter the house. The spark for the explosion came in the form of a newspaper story that claimed that Oscar Vigil had been shot in the back. Carloads of young people raced through the streets, shooting out store windows, setting fires, and overturning automobiles. The Mayor ordered the police to hit back hard and dozens more were arrested. The prisoners were sent to jails in other cities and counties. The fires continued. The university shut down; classes were canceled and all campus events were postponed. The official closure of the university did not stop various fraternities, the Young Americans for Freedom, and the membership of a Christian fundamentalist church from showing their opposition to UMAS and Oscar Vigil. Fraternity brothers and sorority sisters, future state representatives and radio talk show hosts, picketed the Student Center where UMAS had its office, with signs proclaiming Frats Support Law and Order, Only Criminals Fear The Police, and • 93 •

This Is the United States, Not Mexico! The UMAS leaders met with Ramón and Tino and La Fuerza’s leadership circle. The agitated students shouted, cried, and demanded revenge. Finally, they asked for guidance. The meeting ended with an agreement that UMAS should make a nationwide call for a commemoration march. Soledad Cortez Arango assumed the role of La Fuerza’s connection to the students. She promised them that Oscar’s murder would be kept in the spotlight. Chicano leaders from throughout the Southwest issued a joint statement in support and solidarity and guaranteed to send sympathizers to Escobar. The various UMAS chapters also issued a statement that they were prepared to defend their Escobar brothers and sisters. On the morning of the march, a thousand angry supporters congregated on the campus. Several UMAS members carried bullhorns and shouted instructions and orders to the restless crowd. Many of the marchers wore T-shirts imprinted with Oscar’s photograph—long hair flung backwards by the wind, sunglasses shrouding his eyes, fist clenched and raised high, his remarkable smile frozen forever. The marchers were told to line up in pairs, to stay in the column and on the street, and to maintain order. “Remember, this is a peaceful march!” shouted a red-eyed, sleep-deprived Silvia Cruz. The marchers wore black armbands and responded to chants from the bullhorns with their own shouts of “¡Qué viva Oscar!” and “Off the pig!” and, in response to the shout, “Chicano!” they answered, “Power!” They paraded through the Escobar streets—shouting, chanting, and singing. Two Escobar policemen on motorcycles led the marchers along the approved route; another pair of motorcycle cops followed the march. At the police station the crowd gathered in a half-circle in the parking lot and flowed into the street. More chants, more shouts of “Chicano!” followed by “Power!” A dozen Escobar policemen lined up on one side of the • 94 •

street. They carried batons, shields, and their helmets had heavy, tinted visors that covered their faces. The bed of a pickup truck had been turned into a makeshift stage where a student hurriedly set up a microphone and sound speaker system. The crowd had quieted while they waited. A young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a corduroy sport coat stepped up into the truck. His short hair and neat appearance contrasted with the edginess of his audience. Danny Rivera, the UMAS Vice-President suddenly thrust into the main UMAS leadership role, gave a halting, confused speech praising Oscar and reminding the audience that Oscar believed in peace, and that he did not deserve to die such a violent death. The students cheered him and for several minutes he led them in chants again. Finally, he shouted, “And now, a Chicano who needs no introduction, el jefe, El Rey, Ramón Hidalgo!” Hidalgo waited through the gritos. So young, he thought. Pimply boys in bell-bottom jeans, brown boots with square toes; innocent-looking girls also in jeans, some with farmerstyle overalls, blouses with embroidered flowers, John Lennon sunglasses. Headbands graced several heads of shoulder-length hair, girls and boys. Signs and banners mixed with the angry, expectant faces. He had grown accustomed to crowds of young Chicano faces staring up at him, waiting for his words. But he remembered when such a scene was unknown, not yet dreamed. He recalled the surprise and uncertainty that had been caused by Catarina’s family when they had appeared at a small county courthouse in support of Sal the Salesman. The bailiff had demanded to know what they were doing there, and Catarina’s mother had spoken for them all: “We are here because you have our son.” Ramón learned that day that he was one of all the sons who had been punished, beaten, arrested or killed for the sin of being Mexican. Now, he would try to convince the crowd that Oscar Vigil also was one of those sons. • 95 •

Hidalgo filled his lungs in an attempt to control his labored breathing. He felt the excitement of the anticipation of addressing an audience that expected inspiration from him; that believed he could voice their sorrow, anger and frustration; and that demanded a passionate clarity about what they should do to move ahead. They want fire and hatred, emotional appeals to revenge and violence. They want to be told that the time for revolution is here and they should just get it on. They want to hear that Oscar’s death requires no less. He believed in the revolution—the change that had to happen. And he understood that it had to be a violent change, an upheaval of rage and blood. But Hidalgo knew that the time was not yet ripe for the armed struggle. We can’t win that fight. Not yet. We’re not ready; the people aren’t ready. He delivered a speech that praised the young man for his revolutionary spirit, strong leadership on the campus, and the certainty of a life dedicated to La Raza. He condemned Sutton, who had a history of complaints and allegations of brutality, as well as the city administration that gave Sutton leave with pay while the police chief investigated the shooting. “Our brother, our son, Oscar Vigil, did not have to die four days ago. It was not his time. We all know that and yet, here we are, mourning another dead brother, another dead son while the city burns and smolders because of the people’s anger. Our brother, our son, Oscar Vigil, should have graduated this spring, he should have been making plans for returning to the community, to give back a little of what his education has provided. Our brother, our son, Oscar, was about to start the rest of his life, a life with a future that spread out before him like the mountains rise to the sky. I was proud to know Oscar Vigil and I believe that he was ready to step into a leadership role for his people, to struggle and fight, and one day win justice, self-determination and peace for La Raza. Instead, our brother, our son, Oscar Vigil, at the beginning of his life of promise, was murdered, shot while he kneeled down, shot in the back by a racist thug. And • 96 •

what was his crime?” He paused and filled his lungs again. “He was a Chicano, and for that he was sentenced to die. The lying Mayor rewards Mad-Dog Sutton with a vacation for killing our young brother, our young son. That is the punishment for shooting Chicanos in cold blood—two weeks off with expenses paid. ¡Ya Basta!” The crowd screamed in response; they vibrated with Hidalgo’s passion. “No more injustice in the name of justice. If the police and the Mayor can’t or won’t make Mad-Dog Sutton answer for his crime of murder, then I say it is our right, our right as human beings, the right of all Chicanos in occupied Aztlán, to deal our own justice. We ask for nothing more than what any rich white man in this country expects and gets—an eye for an eye when one of our own is shot down with not even the mercy given to a rabid dog!” The crowd cheered and applauded. Slowly, the applause and cheers increased in volume and speed until nothing was left but loud, rhythmic clapping. The rough emotions of the past few days swept over the crowd. They erupted in a continuous roar. “¡Ya basta!” Hidalgo repeated, his fist clenched and raised high, exactly as Oscar Vigil had posed for his photograph. “Chicano!” he screamed to the crowd. “Power!” came the thunderous reply. As Hidalgo excited the crowd, a group of students on the edge of the assembly surrounded one of the motorcycle cops who had led the marchers. They taunted him with curses. “Killer!” “Pig!” “Gestapo!” Someone spit on the policeman’s chrome helmet. A hand reached to the policeman and shoved. He wobbled and had to catch himself with his boot. The panicked officer hurriedly kick-started his motorcycle. He lost control and fell over, trapped under his machine. Other policemen broke ranks and raced to help their fellow officer. The crowd swarmed to defend against what they thought was an attack. The police were lost in a surging wave, a melee of • 97 •

swinging fists, tossed signs and thrown rocks. Silvia shouted through her bullhorn, “Don’t do this! It’s what they want!” Her words were ignored. The marchers and mourners succumbed to their anger, the police to fear and paranoia. Three lines of policemen appeared from around the corner of the police building, dressed in riot gear, carrying tear gas weapons and extra long batons. The Escobar police force had been bolstered with state police, county sheriffs, and policemen from other cities. They turned as one and marched slowly but directly to the crowd. Rocks flew through the sky. A policeman fell to his knees when hit by a brick. A ribbon of blood creased his face. The policemen charged the crowd. Tear gas billowed and rolled over everyone. The street disappeared behind the thick green, gray smoke. Bloodied men and women ran, crawled and stumbled from the middle of the riot. They coughed, cried, rubbed their eyes, and held handkerchiefs to their faces. A pickup truck with several American flags draped on its sides raced down the street. The Star Spangled Banner blared from a speaker attached to the cab. Marchers screamed, jumped out of its way. Policemen staggered, stumbled and ran, not sure of the truck or its driver. The driver leaned on his horn and one never-ending loud bleat played against the strains of the national anthem. The driver stuck his head out the window to yell something but he lost control of the steering wheel and plowed into a parked police car, swerved and smashed the storefront of the Escobar Pharmacy and Market. The driver jumped from the truck, holding a small American flag. He was grabbed by several students and beaten to the ground. Ramón, Catarina, Soledad, Tino and others from La Fuerza were shoved and pummeled by cops and marchers. They tried to protect themselves. A man grabbed Ramón’s sleeve. He screamed, “You fucking Mexican!” Ramón recognized Harry Veltri. He jerked from Veltri’s grasp, started to move away, and • 98 •

then rushed back. Ramón punched his old enemy three times; Veltri collapsed. Tino wrapped his arms around Ramón’s shoulders and held him until the others from La Fuerza were near. They bunched together and moved their way through the riot, the tear gas almost overwhelming them. They stopped when several policemen surrounded them with drawn weapons. They were forced to kneel on the street, their hands behind their heads. In the background, the busted cassette player in the wrecked pickup repeatedly looped the same screechy lyrics and warped music. Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming? La Fuerza’s leaders were taken to the City Jail where special cells had been reserved for them.

• Hidalgo, García, and a few of the students were charged with inciting a riot. Abraham and a pair of young Chicano attorneys fresh out of law school defended the group and, again, the men were acquitted. The District Attorney could not produce any evidence that La Fuerza members had done anything more than participate in the march. The prosecutor did manage to prove that Hidalgo had given a speech. The jury listened to the allegations of outside agitators and subversive elements, but at the end of the trial, the decision was quick and decisive. Not guilty. The expense of legal battles required La Fuerza to do continuous fund raising. There was always some event or project underway to help gather money to cover the expenses of defending the leaders, of bailing out the activists and responding to the numerous arrests and charges. The lawyers worked for free in most of the cases, but there were inevitable costs associated with legal battles. The organization submerged into nonstop activity—demonstrations, marches, forums, campus teach-ins. La Fuerza • 99 •

maintained a bail fund for the arrests that were absolutely going to happen; they were the price of standing up and standing out from the crowd. Legal observers became standard props at events. Their job was to watch the police and record their activities, in case another trial took place. Usually they were volunteer lawyers or law students, often associated with groups like the National Lawyers Guild or the ACLU. In time, the leaders assumed the worst and expected trouble and incarceration whenever they spoke out about issues.

• 100 •

Roosters and Bulls Escobar 1971

The lawyer had a smile that stretched his face, opened up the bottom half of his jaw, and usually ended with a quick loud laugh. Ramón liked that smile because it symbolized what Josh Abraham was all about—he enjoyed the act of living, he wanted passion and emotion and laughter in everything he did, and he believed in sharing what he thought was his good luck. The two men sat across from one another at a long, heavy oak table covered with newspapers, magazines, manila envelopes, legal-sized files, and paperbacks with lurid covers. Among the litter were several bright-colored plates and bowls piled with chorizo mixed in scrambled eggs, refried beans, red chile from New Mexico, smoked salmon, bagels, fruit and jam blintzes, and caramelized fried sweet potato strips. Each of the men had a plate loaded with food and a tall glass of orange juice. Hidalgo also had an oversized mug of coffee. They met for breakfast every few weeks. It was a habit that had started during one of the political trials, when the men planned how to synchronize the goals of the trial with the goals of the Movement. They had enjoyed each other’s company so much that the meetings continued, sometimes at Josh’s house, sometimes at Ramón’s and, rarely, at a restaurant where they thought they could talk without being overheard. A diminutive woman entered the room carrying a bowl of strawberries, sliced peaches and blueberries. She had ochretinged skin and thin eyes that squinted against the morning light streaming through the bay window. Hidalgo knew that she was a mestiza from Peru but anyone else might have thought she was Asian. • 101 •

“Good grief, Lourdes. Your breakfasts make the ones Cat and I serve look like a snack. I can’t possibly eat all of this.” He opened his hands and waved them over the table. “You always say that, Ramón, and yet I never have any leftovers. At least one of you is eating, and eating well.” A jazz ballad circulated in the background. As a serious fan of the be-bop masters—Dizzy Gillespie, Charley Parker, Lester Young—Josh had a massive collection of vinyl albums, reel-toreel tapes, and books on jazz. There was always music in his house and Hidalgo had come to appreciate the improvisational riffs and extended solos of musicians who explored the limits of cadence, rhythm, and melody. Hidalgo once asked how a man so hip when it came to music could wear such square clothes: garish ties, ugly sport coats and ill-fitting pants. The lawyer ignored the question. Josh patted his stomach. “She tells me that my gut is growing too much, too fast, but look at how she feeds me. It’s a conspiracy.” “The conspiracy we should worry about is the one between Robinson and the Feds.” Hidalgo had wanted to enjoy breakfast without talking politics but he could not avoid it. “They’re doing everything they can to destroy La Fuerza. They’ll do anything to kill the Movement.” “They can kill an organization, they can kill a man or a woman.” Lourdes spoke as she served herself. All three joined in the last part of the catch phrase. “But they can’t kill the revolution.” They laughed and settled into eating. “I’m amazed at how developed the organization has become,” Josh said between bites. “It’s as though you have a blueprint, an actual plan.” “It’s about growing up. We have to. We’re not kids playing games. This is life and death. In a sense, all Chicanos are coming of age, no matter if we’re children or grandparents. We’re learning Chicano history for the first time; some of us are making it. There isn’t any plan, Josh, no instruction book on how to create a • 102 •

revolution for social justice in the United States. We’re learning who we really are, what our place in history is, as well as where the future will take us. It’s exciting, but draining. We all feel tired, worn-out.” Josh and Lourdes nodded. “How’s the building working out?” Josh asked. Before he could answer, Lourdes said, “You should see all that’s going on over there. I stopped by yesterday. It’s great, Ramón. You’ve done a wonderful job. They have a bookstore, a childcare center, even a school. I was impressed.” “Thank you, Lourdes. We have a lot of plans for that old warehouse. We’ve set up several meeting rooms and in the large central hall we take care of all the organization’s public business. Those meetings get packed. Every weekend it swells with visitors. Mostly from the colleges. There’s always something going on at the ‘house. That’s what everyone calls it. The ‘house. And thanks again, Josh, for helping us with the purchase and all that paperwork.” The lawyer nodded. “I found our friend in his office—his closet really,” Lourdes said. “So small, Ramón. Packed with books. You should see the stacks on his desk. You need more room, Ramón. How can you work like that?” “Fact is, I don’t do much work in that office,” Ramón explained. “It’s all I need. I go there to read, to escape, if you can believe that. Everywhere else, I have to be on. Working, talking, explaining, arguing, convincing. In that office, I read anything that entertains me. Or enlightens. And if I had a bigger office, there would be those who would say that I’ve got the big head, the cabeza grande.” “I know what you mean,” Josh said. “I’ve got the same problem.” They all laughed. “At least you have good choices for reading. More and more Chicanos getting published.” “A few. Quinto Sol out of California is trying to establish itself as a Chicano publisher. That book by Tomás Rivera is excellent. Brought back a lot of memories about the migrant • 103 •

life. Good and bad. But, you know, when I read something by a Chicano, I can’t help myself. I read those writers much more critically. Not for enjoyment but to look for weaknesses in ideology or an incorrect understanding of Chicano Nationalism. One day I want to be able to read something by a raza writer and just go with it, you know? One day.” “All that comes from the burden of leadership, Ramón.” Josh popped a strawberry in his mouth. “The price you have to pay. You’re the watchdog, you will be critical, but you also can point out all the good things you find. I read Rivera’s ... and the earth did not swallow him. It’s great, a classic piece of American Literature. But I read it only because you recommended it, you found it.” “He’s right, Ramón,” Lourdes added. “And anyway, how can there be any incorrect understandings of Chicano Nationalism now that you’ve published your tract? The True Meaning of Chicano Nationalism is almost a sacred book among Chicano intellectuals and students. You lay it all out. A nation where Chicanos exert political power, where the society is based on communal values of the indigenous people of the Southwest, where Self-Determination and Third World Unity are attainable goals not just slogans. I think you make it clear that colonized people have the right to resist their colonizers and to re-establish their claims to their lands. Your historical examples and cites to international law are right on, Ramón. You’ve written a true revolutionary classic.” “If only my old teachers could hear you say that. But the truth is that many people helped write that essay. Tino and Cat for the most part.” “Catarina told me that the original words and ideas are all yours,” Lourdes said. “The underlying emotion is all Ramón Hidalgo. You explain why you’ve become a revolutionary. I’ve talked with students who’ve read it. They accept it with something close to reverence. If nothing else, you will always be remembered for that.” Hidalgo sat back in his chair. “I wish I could be as upbeat • 104 •

as you two. The organization has problems. And I’m not talking about the infiltrators or the cops.” “You mean money.” Josh looked at Lourdes as he stated what he thought was the obvious. “Yeah, money. We don’t have any. That’s the problem. It’s a constant pressure on us. We’re always looking for new sources of funding, new supporters to keep us afloat. We get sued almost every week for not paying the few bills that come with the building. Every month we have a new shut-off notice for utilities. The nickel-and-dime debts are draining us. We have to ask our members for more and more. But none of us is rich. There’s only so much any of us can do.” “How about your business, Ramón? Surely that’s a source?” Lourdes asked. He shook his head. “It was a source. Robinson’s taken care of that. I wasn’t kidding about his conspiracy against us. He’s let all of our customers know that he does not approve of doing business with anyone connected to La Fuerza. I can’t keep the business going for another six months unless something really changes.” “Then you have to rely on the people,” Josh said. “The people and your friends. We will do what we can, Ramón. You know that.” Lourdes nodded her head. She stood and opened a drawer of the dining room credenza. She pulled out a checkbook and brought it back to the table. As she filled in one of the checks, Hidalgo said, “Yes, I know. I can rely on my friends.” Josh raised his glass of orange juice. “To friends, joined by a common bond that many others can’t understand, they even criticize.” Hidalgo and Lourdes raised their glasses and rolled their eyes at each other. They waited for Josh’s breakfast toast, a tradition that had produced several not-so-great speeches. “To my co-conspirator targets of close scrutiny by various law enforcement agencies, my revolutionary comrades who have been reduced to objects of ridicule in the press, and my fellow travelers, as the Feds like to call you, so often scorned by • 105 •

those with whom we interact: teachers, parents of our children’s friends, former lovers. May our enemies rot in the place reserved for them in hell.” Hidalgo and Lourdes laughed and chugged their drinks. “Where are the boys? How’re they doing?” Hidalgo was fond of Josh’s and Lourdes two boys. One looked like the father, the other could be his mother’s twin. Yet, personality-wise, they were the exact opposites of their look-alike. Hidalgo realized that he had not had any contact with the boys for several months. Josh frowned and stuffed his mouth with chunks of salmon. Lourdes said, “They’re staying with my sister. They can’t get along with Josh. They had a huge argument day before yesterday. I sent them packing before someone did something he would regret later.” She glared at Josh. “They’re teenagers. They have to assert themselves, especially to a father who is such a strong force. Before they were born we were telling them about rebellion and protest and saying no to authority. Josh used to sing the Internationale to my belly when I was pregnant. Now we’re getting back all we’ve ever dished out, and more. I hope we can hang onto them, that we can do something before we lose them altogether.” “It’s drugs. Fucking drugs,” Josh exploded, spreading smoked fish and bagel chunks across his plate. “Doesn’t have anything to do with our politics or even how we raised them. It’s the goddamn permissive petit-bourgeois society and its double standard. Let a poor black kid in the ghetto get caught with a joint and he’s liable to do hard time. My boys are half-white but they look all white, at least Raúl does. They go to a good school, and have privileges of their class and my race, so they have nothing to worry about. Those boys get high every day. Raúl and Jake never met an illegal substance they didn’t like. I told them not to bring that shit into the house. They ignored me, flaunted their disobedience in my face, and I threw them out. They can thank their mother that they have a place to sleep. They won’t ever do that, of course.” • 106 •

Lourdes answered back but Ramón was not listening. He had settled into his own thoughts about his children and how they had also drifted away. Luis, Elizabeth and Ray, Jr. were close to their mother and treated him like a visiting uncle. He knew he had been out of the house too much, that he had spent too much time dealing with other people’s problems and ignoring those of his family. And it wasn’t just the kids. He had to speak to Catarina. He silently vowed that he would fix it, all of it. Together, they could work it out and become a family again, a solid, supportive unit. If he could create a disciplined and efficient organization dedicated to the Movement, he surely could bring together a family that still loved and cared about its individual members, even if it was in serious disarray. He knew he could do it. He had to do it.

• Catarina smiled at her husband. “You should be used to this by now, Ramón. Your talk tomorrow will go fine. How many speeches have you made over the years? A thousand?” They sat in the back booth of a dark, almost deserted café in Escobar’s south side, one of the few Mexican restaurants in the city and the only one that served food good enough to drag Hidalgo out on a pleasant but cool Thursday evening. He had a bottle of beer in his hands; Catarina nursed a shot of tequila. The jukebox played one Mexican song after another, mostly ballads about strong, courageous men who sacrificed all for their pueblo or their one great love. The opening lyrics of Valentín de la Sierra by Antonio Aguilar grabbed his attention and he listened for a minute before he answered Catarina. Voy a cantar un corrido de un amigo de mi tierra, llamádose Valentín, que fue fusilado y colgado en la sierra. The mariachis who accompanied the strong-voiced Aguilar added the right touch of sentiment and pride to the song of the • 107 •

famous revolutionary who cried before his execution but who was still a man of valor. “They hung that poor guy.” “What are you talking about?” Catarina said. “I asked about your speeches.” “Yeah, right. How many speeches? Too many.” Hidalgo sounded tired. “Sometimes the words don’t mean anything to me. I’ve said some of them so many times that they echo in my head, like gibberish.” “You need a break.” She caressed his arm and moved as close to him as she could along the hard, wooden bench. “You’ve been at the center of the storm for too long. Maybe we should visit my mother’s family again, in Guanajuato. We had a good time when we were down there.” He shook his head. “We can’t do that, Cat. Not now. Not with the election coming up next year, not with Tino’s faculty disciplinary hearing in another month, not with all the pressure we’re getting from the cops and politicians. We need the money from my speeches. Now that the business is on the rocks, we need to scrape together every penny. The organization is hardly able to stay afloat. There’s too much, too...” Catarina hugged him and pulled him close. “Okay, viejo. I know. I know how it is. It’s okay.” He drew away. “Please, Catarina. Don’t do that. I’m not a child. I don’t need mothering.” She inched backwards, her body suddenly rigid. “Just what is it you need, then, Ramón?” she asked. Her voice reflected the rigidity of her body. “If I can’t give it to you, then what is it?” “Oh, Christ. Not now.” He realized he had made a mistake but he could not stop. “You have to ... believe me ... I’ve got too much on my mind to play these games with you.” “Games? You think I’m playing games?” Her anger surfaced and she did not hold back. “Don’t patronize me, Ramón. I hate it when you act like you can treat me like a child, like your daughter. I’m your wife, pendejo. You seem to have forgotten that.” • 108 •

“What’s that supposed to mean?” “You forget that I was there when you had to declare bankruptcy because your business couldn’t get any more contracts. You forget that I’ve been arrested as many times as you, that I have my own lawyer bills and doctor bills and bills for the kids’ school. You forget, because that stuff is not important enough for you. I’m just the vieja.” He glared at her. “Stop it. That’s ridiculous. I’m tired, that’s all I was saying. Why go off? What is this about?” “Yeah, you forget. You forget that sooner or later I hear everything about you, every story, every rumor, and every damn piece of gossip. I hear it all, Ramón.” “Why do you keep saying that? What is it that you’ve heard that has you so worked up?” He knew but he would not acknowledge the talk that circulated through the ‘house like bad air. “What is it that you haven’t heard before? It’s all mentiras, you know that.” She breathed deeply. She forced herself back in control. “I know. Yo sé. But it goes on all the time. The stuff about you, and Tino, and the other men. All the young women who look up to you, who would do anything for you. The students, the visitors from out of state. The older women in the organization tell me things, stories they’ve heard. I tell them I don’t want to hear it, that it’s all lies. But, some days, I can’t take it. I can’t.” Hidalgo put down his bottle of beer. He wanted to hug his wife but something stopped him. He reached for her hand and caressed it. “There’s no one else, Cat. You have to believe me. I’m not the best husband, I know. And the organization has a lot of roosters and bulls, men who take advantage of La Fuerza’s reputation. But that’s not me. You are still my love. If you don’t have faith in me, then I can’t have faith in myself. I need you, Cat.” Her warm tears fell on their clenched hands. She kissed him softly and whispered in his ear. “And I need you, Ramón. I could not live without you . . . mi amor.” Her breath caught in her throat as she said the familiar words. • 109 •

• After a long set of vintage corridos and recent rock-androll hits, the band played a string of oldies. The first half of the medley started with Kansas City, segued smoothly into La Bamba, wrapped up with Blueberry Hill. Then the quartet of almost drunk musicians started in on songs made for slow dancing and making out in the back seat of the old man’s ride. Heavy on saxophone solos and guitar twang, the music set the mood for desire and discovery: There Is Something On Your Mind; I’ll Remember (In The Still Of The Night); You’ll Lose A Good Thing; and a big finish of Daddy’s Home mixed with A Thousand Miles Away. The crowded dance floor oozed sex. Teenagers groped one another; some of their parents did their own groping. The night suddenly had turned warm and humid. Glassy-eyed and sweaty, the dancers slowly made their way back to their tables, arm-in-arm, not willing to let go of romantic notions that mixed love and want. The band announced that they were going to take a “pause for the cause.” A young man bounded up on the stage, turned on a silver stereo set and began to play records. Hidalgo watched from his small table in the back of the hall. He did not know the bride and groom but the families had invited him to the wedding dance because of who he was and what his name represented. Unlike many other invitations, Hidalgo had accepted this one and surprised the awe-struck parents when he showed up for the dance. He added to the surprise when they realized he was without bodyguards or wife. He paid his respects to the wedding party, left an envelope with a hundred dollars in twenties on the money tree, grabbed a beer from the bar, shook the hands of the bartender and a couple of old-timers who pretended that they were friends, acknowledged the off-duty cop serving as security, who nodded and smiled at Hidalgo, then he sat down, taking in the music, the dancing, the general feel for life on a typical • 110 •

Saturday night in the Chicano section of Escobar. A woman tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and looked at an apprehensive, slightly worn, but still attractive face with dark, earthy coloring and soft eyes. She smiled and said, “Hello, Mr. Hidalgo. My name’s Mary Sandoval. I’m the bride’s cousin. I thought I’d say hello. You look so lonesome here all by yourself.” Before he said anything she sat down at his table. “Mind if I rest for a while? We’ve been going since seven since this morning and I am about finished. And since you’re by yourself, I figured you wouldn’t mind a little company.” “Sure, take it easy. You want something to drink?” Hidalgo’s words were measured and careful. His initial reaction was the same as when he encountered any stranger—mistrust. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough beer and even some shots with Gloria, the bride.” She smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you have amazing eyes, Mr. Hidalgo?” He pushed his chair back, slightly. “You always talk like that, with men you don’t know? You’re not flirting with me, are you?” “I most definitely am, Mr. Hidalgo. If I had any courage, I would do a lot more than just talk, here in the dark. I guess I’ll have to see what you do, how you react.” He looked around the hall. There were more than a hundred people celebrating the beginning of a new marriage and normally in a crowd he would be the center of attention. But at this wedding dance no one watched him and he felt as though he and the woman were the only ones in the place. “You’ve made a mistake, Mary.” He spoke directly but did not want to sound angry. “Flirting won’t get you anywhere with me. In fact, when you said that, I flashed on the first time I saw my wife. It was a special moment in my life, Mary. I doubt that this night will rank the same with me.” “You certainly don’t mince your words, Mr. Hidalgo.” Her voice was almost lost against the blare of The Twist played by the deejay. “Or, Ramón, okay? I’m not competing with your wife. • 111 •

And if flirting won’t get me anywhere, as you put it, then I guess I’m just here for conversation, and a chance to rest my feet, and maybe a break from everything. How about you, Ramón? Can you use a break?” “I’m more than forty years old. I feel sixty. Yeah, I need a break. I don’t need any trouble and I don’t need any complications. My life is complicated enough. Where does that leave you, Mary?” “Right where I started, Ramón.” She stood up. “Let me get you another beer. Or, do you have to go home already? It is pretty late for a more-than-forty-year old.” “Make it a tequila and a beer. Yeah, it’s late. If I fall asleep, just leave me be, okay?” She walked away. He needed a cigarette but decided against it. What the hell, he wondered. She returned in a few minutes. She handed him his drinks, then quickly sat down. “I apologize,” she said. “I came on like ... like I don’t know what. I just wanted to talk with you, that’s all. I’ll leave. I embarrassed myself, probably you, too. I really am sorry.” She started to leave. He grabbed her arm. “You can stay, Mary. I know how it is and the truth is, I was looking for company tonight. My family’s visiting relatives, I’ve been tied up in meetings all day. I couldn’t stand the people I’ve been around, so I came over here, looking for something, not even sure what. So, you can stay, Mary. And, we can talk. Or you can just sit here and I’ll drink.” She smiled. “Qué bueno, Ramón. Qué bueno.” The band returned to the stage. They kicked off with a rousing rendition of Volver, Volver. The crowd rushed to the dance floor, their bodies moving to the catchy beat of the song people had started calling the Chicano National Anthem. Hidalgo bobbed his head to the rhythm, tapped his feet on the floor and, like everyone else in the hall, he sang along with the refrain: • 112 •



Y volver, volver, volver a tus brazos otra vez; Llegaré hasta donde estés; Yo sé perder, yo sé perder; Quiero volver, volver, volver.

Ramón Hidalgo breathed deeply, sat back in his chair, and let the music, the people, and the night sweep over him. He finished off his tequila, sipped on his beer, and did not push away Mary’s fingers when they intertwined with his. Mary Sandoval had shocked herself. She watched the famous man drift off, his mind in some place that apparently he needed right then. She would earn his trust. She could help him ease whatever pain it was that he carried around deep in his heart but that was as obvious as the scar across his nose. She would keep his secrets, she told herself. Whatever they might be.

• 113 •

Paco Paradise 1971

Hidalgo hurried down the stairs to the basement of the Paradise safe house. The place felt neglected, almost abandoned. Dust coated the remaining furniture and trash littered the corners. Lately, only Tino and Ramón had used the house. Occasionally Soledad was asked to join them and sit in on a decision. Hidalgo’s ragged breath reminded him that he needed to workout. His skin broke a sweat. He opened the door to the small room where Tino and Soledad waited for him. “Are you sure?” he blurted. Soledad jumped at his sudden entrance. “We’re as sure as we can be about something like this,” Tino quietly answered. “I’m having a hard time believing it,” Soledad said. “Paco has been with us almost since the beginning. He showed up right before Oscar was killed, then he helped set up the school. I can’t accept it.” Soledad looked nervous and out-of-place. Her bravado had slipped away and over the years her voice had assumed a cautious note that surprised people who had known her from the days of voter registration drives and grape boycott picketing. When she was asked how she was doing, she typically answered, “Aquí, nomás. I’m here, that’s enough.” Hidalgo sat in his chair behind the cluttered desk. He lit a cigarette and knew not to offer one to either Tino or Soledad. “Christ,” he said to no one in particular. “What does he know? Can he hurt us?” • 114 •

Tino said, “He doesn’t know crap. That’s not the point. He’s an informant and he feeds information to the cops, most likely stuff he makes up. He has to give them something or they won’t pay him. I think he’s the reason Jaime Rivera’s place was searched and they found guns in his closet. Paco was Jaime’s best friend but he wasn’t around that night. I never thought about that until I got the tip from our guy in the Sheriff ’s Department.” “Who is that? Can we trust him?” Hidalgo asked between puffs on his cigarette. “Johnny Córdova. His uncle’s Pete Córdova,” Soledad responded. Hidalgo nodded. “I did time with Pete. I remember his nephew. He’s helped us out before, no?” “Yes. He’s stand-up, okay,” Tino said. He opened a small, leather-bound notebook, slipped on a pair of glasses. He glanced at his notes, then looked at Hidalgo. “I’ve been watching this guy Paco. Worried about him for some time. He’s always the loudest at the meetings, the most aggressive. He wants us to take it to the streets. That’s the way he puts it. I’m convinced he’s a provocateur, as well as an informant. Several times he’s advocated doing something crazy. He’s the first one to throw down or deal chingazos when we have a confrontation. Recuerdas the pedo at the September Sixteenth rally? Paco started that business. He came to us bragging about his connection to the Northwest AIM, but we never confirmed that. Sloppy on our part.” Security lapses were a sore point between Tino and Ramón. “Look what happened to Jaime. This tip confirms my suspicions. We have to take care of this.” The only sound in the room was Hidalgo sucking on his cigarette. He crushed it in an ashtray and stood up. He paced around the small room with his hands stuffed in the back pockets of his jeans. Soledad gripped the arms of her chair, then she, too, stood up. “We should expose Paco, confront him publicly, and call him out.” She had contrived a plan that she hoped could settle • 115 •

the matter. “The rest of the organization has to be present, they have to hear him defend himself, and they have to make a decision about whether he stays or goes. We have to trust our gente, Ramón.” She turned to Tino for support. “I don’t see it that way, Sol,” Tino said. “Such a meeting will only disintegrate into a name-calling, back-stabbing, free-forall. We can’t take the chance. We can’t expose our weaknesses, especially to the younger members of the organization. This calls for drastic action, for solving the problem before it becomes worse, before it’s public knowledge. I think all of us in this room recognize that truth.” “You can’t mean that, Tino,” Soledad said, a hint of desperation in her words. “If we don’t give Paco a chance to defend himself, we are no better than the pigs.” Soledad sat down again. “I can’t go along with this. I can’t. It’s not what we are about. It’s not how we should handle these problems. We have to be better than this.” They stared at one another. “We should use him,” Soledad continued. “Feed Paco wrong data, disinformation. We can take advantage of him, make him our tool.” Tino shook his head. “It’s time you faced up to reality, Sol.” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “We are in a fight for our lives. The Feds, the state pigs, the local cops, all the red squads and counter revolutionary forces, COINTELPRO—they have only one purpose. To destroy us, and others like us around the country. Look what’s happened to the Panthers—ambushed, murdered, double-crossed, framed. The white radicals have gone underground. They had no choice. As long as we’re talking about revolution, about a Chicano Nation, the Man will treat us in only one way. He has to kill the organization. He has to kill us. Paco is one of their weapons. There are others and if we don’t deal with them now, and in the strongest way possible, we will never be free. You know that, Sol, you just don’t want to accept it.” He stared at the • 116 •

man he called his best friend. “Ramón knows it, too.” Soledad looked away and hung her head. She did not say anything else. Hidalgo lit another cigarette. A patch of time passed. One in the room would remember later that it was mere seconds, the others would insist that several minutes ticked away while Ramón Hidalgo reflected on the challenge presented to him by Tino García. “Tino, take care of it. Keep Sol and the others out of this. You know who to go to. Explain it to them, turn it over to them.” Hidalgo’s shoulders slumped. “Goddamn it! Goddamn it!” Tino García rubbed the scar on his jaw line. He stood up, reluctantly and slowly. He opened his mouth to say something to Soledad but stopped before any words came out. He sighed and asked Ramón, “You’re absolutely sure?” Hidalgo glared at his old comrade. “No, of course not,” he said. “But I feel it here, adentro.” He pointed at his heart. “I don’t know what else we can do. You’re right about not going public with this. And we can’t try to use him. We get nothing from that. Too risky. We need to finish it, bottom line. God help us if we’re wrong.” “God ain’t helping us, Ramón, right or wrong.” Tino watched Soledad as he spoke. “This is all up to us.” Tino walked out of the room. Hidalgo left Soledad in the silent and cold office.

• When Paco was found dead from an overdose of drugs, Soledad told only a few in the organization that she had left La Fuerza. She never publicly explained. Most thought that she had grown weary of the reactionary machismo in the organization. The women were beginning to find their own voices, causes, and issues, and the male leadership was not ready. Soledad’s reasons for leaving were complicated and included her frustration with the attitudes of many of the men, but • 117 •

they centered on Paco and his death. The weight of what had happened never left her. She was not able to make the mark she seemed destined for; her children became her life, short as it was, and her potential for leadership was never achieved. Five years after she left La Fuerza, she was gone forever, taken by a cancer that she believed had been caused by her failure to prevent Paco’s death.

• At Paco’s funeral, Hidalgo talked about the young man as ambitious; a man “who wanted the spotlight, who thought he could be a leader.” Hidalgo didn’t hold back on the drug-related cause of Paco’s death, and he tried to use it as a lesson that Paco was a victim of yet another type of repression. “The massive influx of illegal drugs into communities of color had to come from the Feds, the C.I.A. most likely. The Man killed Paco, just as if he had been shot in the front lines.” He didn’t say what he really thought, that Paco worked for the Man and that cost him his life, but the truth wasn’t that far off from what his funeral speech. Tino and Ramón had to constantly deal with the threat of informants, undercover agents, provocateurs, and counter-revolutionary elements. The realization that there were agents in the organization became an obsession. The two leaders spent hours, days, weeks following that obsession, diluting their energy and focus. They reinforced their own paranoia and became more preoccupied with things other than working for the people. Tino especially went after what he called “the crazies”: Marxist-Leninists who styled themselves as the New Left, and whom Tino disparaged as “cherry reds”; reformists who thought America just needed some tweaking, whose entire agenda, according to Tino, was to “take the organization off the revolutionary path”; and the real locos, the terrorists who wanted to bomb and bomb again. • 118 •

When Tino and Ramón tried to meet with a group of the extreme militants, the gathering ended in a loud and ugly argument. Tino and Ramon were called agents and pigs; the two men had to fight their way out of the meeting.

• 119 •

Wrapped Tight Escobar 1971

The night had started in the usual way. Ramón showed up at her house, uninvited. She made him something to eat, he always arrived hungry, they had a few drinks, and they talked about their respective work weeks. They hugged, kissed. He forced himself to stop, expressed his anger with swearing, and drank some more. Then he said they should go out. They were both embarrassed, each for a different reason. Invariably, Hidalgo would take her to the house of one of the handful of men he trusted absolutely. His trust was rooted in the decades-old secrets he knew about them. They were roughtalking men who, she thought, must be titillated by the idea of El Rey with a mistress. Mary and Ramón ended up at a seedy apartment filled with cigarette smoke. Four men partied with them; there was no one from the leadership circle. They played cards, drank, danced. She danced with the various men, with Hidalgo’s blessing since she usually was the only woman at the parties. They talked about revolution and the Movement. They talked about growing old. Chuy Pacheco strutted around the room smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking one beer after another. He always was the first man other than Ramón to dance with Mary, the first to grab her and hold her as though he had as much right as Hidalgo. He twirled her as fast as he could. He talked about getting higher. Mary had asked Ramón about his friend but Ramón did not offer much except that he had met Chuy in prison. • 120 •

Pacheco slipped his arm around Mary’s waist, his hand wandering across her hips. She shoved him. “Don’t. Stop it,” she said. “Hey, mujer. Don’t get bent out of shape. We’re all friends here, no?” Pacheco’s eyes gleamed at her. “I don’t like that stuff, Chuy. Keep your hands off me.” She walked away but he grabbed her and stopped her. He pulled her to him, acting as though his vulgar movements were merely dance steps. She tried to jerk free. Before anyone saw clearly what was happening, Ramón had stepped between the two. He wrenched Chuy’s arm from Mary and pushed her away. “You better leave, Chuy. You’re drunk and out of line,” Hidalgo said. Pacheco looked at the other men in the room, then at Mary, back at Hidalgo. “It’s like that, huh? This skirt’s got you wrapped tight, man. You should take into consideration your old pals, just for old time’s sake, eh vato? I think...” Hidalgo swung his fist at Pacheco and caught him on the chin. Pacheco stumbled backwards and fell into an armchair. He stared up at Hidalgo. He frowned, rubbed his chin. Then he smiled. “Hey, easy bro. No offense meant, ése. You got me good.” Pacheco continued to rub his chin. “I didn’t know she meant that much to you. I figured Catarina was the one that mattered. But, hey, guess you’re entitled. El Rey and everything, eh?” Hidalgo stood before the sitting man. “Shut up. I told you to leave. Get out, now.” Pacheco nodded effusively. “Oh yeah, man. I’m leaving. I can see when I’m not wanted. No need to hit me over the head.” He laughed. “Little late for that, huh?” Chuy Pacheco pushed up from the chair and worked his way around Hidalgo while he shook his head. He paused, turned to Mary and was about to say something when he felt Hidalgo stir behind him. He opened the apartment door, walked out and slammed the door. • 121 •

The other men cautiously moved about until one of them said, “That guy’s loco, Ramón. We’ve been telling you that for years. Good riddance.” The others nodded. Hidalgo said, “Mary, get your coat. We should go. This party’s over...” He fell into an even darker funk on the way home, not saying more than a half-dozen words. He let her off and drove away quickly, not waiting to make sure that she made it into her house. She cried herself to sleep. The telephone rang. She said, “Hello?” She heard a long sigh. “This is Catarina Hidalgo. If you see Ramón again, I’ll divorce him. If you want to deal with that, it’s your move. You stay out of Ramón’s life and walk away, and that’s the end of it. One more time and it’s over.” She hung up. Mary softly hung up the phone. She curled into a tight ball, closed her eyes and prayed. She asked that Ramón be all right, that he stay away when she told him it was over. Just before she fell asleep she prayed for forgiveness from Catarina.

• 122 •

A Buzz In The Room Escobar 1972

“Get it together, Ramón. You’re a mess. You’re useless to the Movement like this.” Tino’s words sounded hollow. There was little enthusiasm in the message. Tino had grown tired of repeating it. Ramón Hidalgo fidgeted in his seat. He smoked one cigarette after another, never completely finishing one. He tapped the table with tobacco-smudged fingers and remembered happier times in the room, times with Cat when Tino made them all laugh with his wild stories about his travels to Mexico or Cuba, trips that always ended in near disasters with lost luggage, missed connections, misplaced hotel reservations. He had many tales of drawn-out, abusive customs interrogations at airports and borders around the world. Ancient history, Ramón thought. “Catarina kicked you out almost a year ago.” Tino had decided to try a new tack. “It was tough. I know that. It was hard on her, too. I could see that. But, who’s to blame? You’ve bounced from one woman to another, and some of them have been real freaks. Pull yourself together, man. If you had kept your dick in your...” “It wasn’t that way. I’ve told you that, many times. There wasn’t another woman when Cat and I split. There never could be anyone else. It was more than that.” “How about that Sandoval woman? Chuy Pacheco spread it all over town how you were doing her, and he couldn’t keep quiet about all that went on in your secret parties. His big mouth hurt us, bad. We lost some good people over those stories and we would have lost a lot more until we convinced Pacheco to leave • 123 •

town. But, the damage was done. And it must have affected Catarina. That had to have been part of it.” “Chuy Pacheco is a lying dog.” Hidalgo’s face twisted in anger. “He turned on me, he turned on all of us and then he slandered me and Mary and he hurt Cat. I should have finished him when I had the chance. Instead, I let you handle it and all he got was a ride to the bus station.” Tino stood up from the table and shook his head. “Ramón, you’re missing the point. Whatever the truth is, whatever Pacheco had to do with the end of you and Catarina, whatever other women did or did not have to do with the finish of your marriage—you have to get a grip. You’ve been out of action for months. You haven’t made any appearances except when you don’t have to speak or do anything else. You’ve ignored the organization and its problems. We’re drowning in debt. We’re going to lose the warehouse because we’ve missed six payments on the loan. It’s gone, man, taken over by bankers and capitalist loan sharks. We got cops coming around almost every damn day, hassling us, driving away gente, scaring the shit out of anyone who might do us some good. A few of us have tried to hold it together, but now many of our most reliable people are asking if it’s worth it. They see you walking around like a zombie and they wonder why they’re risking their lives, their children’s future. I don’t know what to tell them anymore.” Tino opened the refrigerator and grabbed the only bottle of beer. He drank as much as he could before he set it down and looked back at Ramón. He shrugged. “You used to say that you wanted people in the organization who were passionate about something, anything. Politics. Music. Love. Even the way they dressed. You said that if someone wasn’t passionate about something, he couldn’t understand the Movement. Where’s your passion these days, Ramón?” Hidalgo failed to respond. “Okay, ése. Talk to me. You say it wasn’t a woman that ended it with Catarina, but there was something going on with Mary Sandoval. In the past year you’ve had more honeys than I • 124 •

can remember, but you insist you still love Catarina. You claim you don’t know why you split up, but I think you do, man. I think you know and you don’t want to deal with it, and because you won’t deal with it, you’re nothing. You’re not anyone’s leader; you’ve forgotten the Movement. And the Movement is about to forget you. Time and events are moving past you, past all of us. Do you see that, Ramón? Does any of this make sense to you?” Ramón raised himself from his chair. He stared into the eyes of his oldest friend, the man he had trusted with his life. “The Movement is finished, Tino. It failed. It’s over. You need to accept that.” Tino narrowed his eyes. He did not recognize the man talking. “Nothing has failed, Ramón, except you. Nothing is over, except you.” Ramón struggled to say what he thought had to be said. The words were mixed up in his head and would not form into a coherent sentence. He grabbed Tino’s wrists. Tino shoved him aside. “Cabrón. Don’t grab me. Don’t think you can push me around like one of your punks.” “Hey, Tino, don’t...” Ramón reached for Tino again and this time Tino slapped away his hands. Ramón lunged at him, smashing him against the refrigerator. They wrestled, fell to the floor and kicked over chairs. They fought for several minutes. Blood flowed from both men. They cursed, shouted at each other. Profane and ugly words exploded in the stagnant air of the house. More blows fell, glasses and plates flew off the counter as the men replaced love and respect with anger and fury. When at last they stopped, a buzz filled the room, the remains of the sound of the violence and bitterness suddenly unleashed. Ramón staggered from Tino’s house. He climbed in his car and screeched down the street. He did not look back. • 125 •

Blood streamed from Tino’s mouth and an ice pick of pain wrenched his shoulder. He leaned over the sink and held his head under the flow of water. When he could not breathe he stepped back and gasped for air. He was surrounded by the broken pieces of his kitchen, the overturned furniture, the Mexican masks in dozens of jumbled, shattered sections. He eased himself back to the floor, folded his legs underneath himself, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. He did not move until the telephone rang, more than an hour later. Hidalgo raced to his old house. He ignored stop signs and speed limits. He needed to see Catarina. He needed her.

• “Ramón, what happened? You’re bleeding. What...?” He rushed in the house. He moved crookedly through the rooms. She shouted at him, “Ramón, what are you looking for? What do you want? Stop. Let me look at you. All this blood. What happened?” He could not stop. He was seized with the thought that there was someone else in the house, a man. There had to be. It had been almost a year. Catarina was a beautiful, desirable woman. There had to be a man in the house. She grabbed Hidalgo and tried to hold him. He pushed her away. “Where the hell is he?” “Who? What are you talking about? Ramón, stop.” Before he realized what he was doing, he swung at her with the same force and rage that he had used against Tino. His fist caught her on the temple and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Goddamn it, I know there’s someone here. I can feel it in my gut. Where the fuck is he?” He stood over her, his fists clenched. His lips trembled, his • 126 •

eyes quivered. Sweat slid down his back. Blood dripped from his nose. “There’s no one here but me and the kids. There’s no one else.” The words were weak, her voice timid. She was dizzy from the blow, nauseous. She rested on her knees. He had trouble breathing. He thought of Tino, and then he lurched backwards as he realized what he had done. Luis, Elizabeth and Ray, Jr. ran into the room. “Get out! Get out!” Luis screamed at his father. His younger sister and brother huddled next to him. Ray, Jr. began to cry. Hidalgo opened his arms for his children. Elizabeth and Ray, Jr. rushed to their mother; Luis clenched his fists at his sides and stood rigidly in front of his father. Hidalgo screamed. He ran through the door and jumped in his car. Luis relaxed and helped his mother to her feet. He tried to examine the bruise spreading across the side of her face but she tore herself free and ran to the street. “Ramón! Stop! Stop!” Hidalgo slammed the car into reverse and squealed out of the driveway. Catarina stumbled to the sidewalk. She swayed back and forth, her hand covering the sharp pain in her ear. “Ramón, stop! You can’t do this. You can’t drive. You’re out of control. Come back.” Hidalgo’s car lurched into the street. The three children watched from the doorway. Catarina shouted and pleaded. She fell to her knees on the pavement and fanned her fingers over her face. Hidalgo raced away without looking back into the darkness of the street. He did not see the other car speed around the corner. He didn’t hear his children’s screams or the angry thud of metal smashing flesh and bone. He never saw the bulky, noisy machine scoop up Catarina and toss her into the blackness of the cold, dead night.

• 127 •

III: Viejo Never Can Say Goodbye

Let’s Get It On Escobar 1973

Johnny Garza picked at his teeth with a ragged matchstick. He moved his head and shoulders to what he thought was the beat of Marvin Gaye wooing his latest squeeze, telling her that they should take their relationship to a higher place. “Don’t you know how sweet and wonderful life can be? I’m asking, babe, get it on with me. I ain’t going to push.” Seduction. Johnny liked that word. That’s what it was all about. To seduce. Win over. Have your way. Dominate. Seduce. The tap on his shoulder was rough and rude. “Hey, man, take it easy.” Johnny moved away from the jabbing finger. The throbbing light of the disco ball eclipsed behind the form of the man who accosted him, allowing him to make out the face behind the finger. Johnny stiffened. “Detective Nye. Didn’t expect to see you here. What’s the haps?” He tried to smile but the burly policeman’s growl stopped him short. He waited. Nye had beaten him on more than one occasion and he did not want to give him any excuse to do it again. Nye bent forward into Johnny’s pockmarked face. Johnny smelled Juicy Fruit and coffee. “I understand that you’re a militant these days. A Chicanopower guy. That right, Johnny?” “Uh, what do you mean, Detective? I’m not sure . . .” Nye grabbed the younger man’s shirtfront and shoved him against the wall. Johnny grunted. Several people in the club glared at what was happening but when Nye looked at them they turned away. • 130 •

“Don’t bullshit me, Garza. You been hanging around with Ray Hidalgo and those other loonies who talk cheap about revolution and offing the pig.” He twisted Johnny’s gaudy, shimmering shirt and a button popped loose. “What I don’t understand is why you haven’t been talking to me about all that. We had an arrangement, remember? I’m sure you remember that bit of trouble you had with that young lady in Dunbar Park, and how you agreed to give me something every once in a while. But I ain’t got snot from you since then, Johnny. What the hell you going to do about that?” Johnny Garza’s sweat stained his shirt. He could not free himself from Nye’s grip. He felt dizzy and hot. “Take it easy. I was comin’ to see you. When I got somethin’. I can’t tell you anything here. Look around. You’re goin’ to get me killed. Take it easy. I got somethin’ now. I was comin’ to see you tomorrow. Early, before I go in to work at the tire shop. But you got to back off now. This ain’t good, man, not for either of us.” Detective John Nye released the shirt. He rubbed his fingers on one of Johnny’s shirt cuffs to remove Johnny’s sweat. “You dung ball. You are so full of it. Tomorrow, early. Ha. That’s good, real good.” He started to walk away. “It had better be good, Garza. You’ve run out of options, and if you don’t come up with something sweet, the next guy who grabs you in the dark is going to be your cell mate.” Johnny straightened out his shirt, smoothed back his hair. Maybe he should teach Nye a lesson. Just disappear, take off. Screw him. He owed nothing to Nye. That would be so cool. To fade away, leave Nye holding the bag. This was big, why give it to a cabrón like Nye? Yeah, why? Just walk away. Disappear. A slightly plump girl only technically dressed in a tight skirt and tighter blouse bumped up against Johnny. “Hey, Juanito, you okay? I saw that cop pushing you around. You all right?” Johnny’s eyes brightened. • 131 •

“That pig? Ain’t nothin’, Gina. He acts tough, but he ain’t nothin’. He’s on my tab, on the take. Part of the cost of doin’ business, if you know what I mean. He has to make it look good, or his cop pals will get wise. I make sure he digs the score, you know that. Say, you need another drink?”

• 132 •

Make It Look Good Paradise 1973

“Do you really understand what you are supposed to do, Johnny?” Ramón Hidalgo grunted the words. The dynamite had come from his defunct building supply business. Although he knew what to do with the explosives, he had avoided the construction of the device. But now he worried. “This can kill you and a dozen other people,” he said. “You have to concentrate.” “I got it, Ray. I was in the army, remember? I could do this in my sleep.” Hidalgo shoved the younger man and pushed him against the wall. He stared into red-rimmed eyeballs and splotched skin. “You jack this up and you are a dead man. Think about it for a minute and let it sink in. If you don’t do exactly what you have been instructed to do, you will end your pinche life and that of our comrade Elfego. You, I might not sweat about.” Johnny frowned. Hidalgo briefly regretted his words. “We need his experience, his training. He was part of the armed resistance in his country. His entire life has been devoted to the struggle. He is willing to show you and Linda what needs to be done. Are you ready?” Hidalgo’s voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Johnny Garza turned his head and tried to wiggle free from the wall. He was blocked by Hidalgo. “I got it, I know what to do. Please, Ray, it will be okay. We know what to do.” The door opened and a man and a woman entered the basement of the Paradise safe house. Elfego Contreras wore jeans, cheap sandals, and a threadbare cotton shirt. He was clean-shaven, his hair was trimmed • 133 •

neatly, and he carried himself like a soldier. Linda Dominguez was younger, closer to Johnny’s age, and she dressed like Johnny— slacks, a colorful short-sleeved shirt, high-heeled boots. The two watched Hidalgo move away from Garza. Elfego asked, “Everything okay? We have to get to it. If we want to plant this before midnight, we need to move. What’s going on?” Ramón Hidalgo shrugged. “Just trying to make sure our young guerrillero here understands the importance of what he is about to do. I hope he gets the point.” “Hey, it’s all okay,” Johnny said. “Ray here is just worried about the action. It’s not every day that the revolution knocks directly on the door of the Man. But we’re good, ain’t we, Ray? Right?” Hidalgo nodded. “Yeah, sure. We’re good. All of you be careful.” Elfego shook Hidalgo’s hand and then hugged him. “Amigo, this is a big step for the struggle here in the United States. Our message tonight is that the ruling class, the racists, the oppressors are not safe, even in their own homes, in their own beds. Just as we have all suffered and died at their hands, for centuries, now they, too, must suffer and die. It’s in the natural order of things. The time has come for the uprising. Tonight, we fire the first shot of the next world war, a war of liberation and freedom. Thank you, Ramón, for having the courage to take this step.” He turned to Garza and Dominguez. “And thank you, comrades, for your willingness to rise up in the cause of freedom, thank you for your commitment to the struggle.” “I hope your intelligence is good, Elfego,” Ramón said. “Robinson’s summer house has to be empty, no maid, gardener, driver. He’s supposed to be there tomorrow morning, so it has to go off tonight, when no one else is around. This is a symbol, nothing more.” Elfego smiled. “We understand the plan, Ramón. The timing will be fine; everything will be fine. And, if the Governor • 134 •

does happen to show up—no importa.” He snapped his fingers. Hidalgo started to say something but Elfego raised his hand. “It won’t happen that way, Ramón. This action will go off just like we have planned for weeks. A warning shot. A symbol, as you called it. When Robinson sees the burned-out shell of his bourgeois cottage, and he finds our message, the Chicano Liberation Army will be recognized as the vanguard of the Movement. The time has come.” Hidalgo kept his skepticism to himself. What Army? Elfego and two young recruits did not make an army. Johnny and Linda smiled weakly. Johnny assured himself by touching the handgun in his shoulder holster. Linda felt her heart racing and sweat at her temples. Together they gingerly lifted the package then followed Elfego out of the basement and into the darkness. Hidalgo sat on a dusty chair. He shook his head, rubbed his tired, dry eyes. The drip of a leaky faucet echoed through the empty house. He shuddered, slapped his thighs with the palms of his shaking hands. He hit himself again, and again. Contreras and his followers quickly left the city and drove northwest toward the resort town of Glacierville and the entrance to Madrugada National Park where the Governor, Philip Robinson, maintained a summer cabin. Elfego sat in the backseat while Linda drove and Johnny slouched in the passenger seat. They traveled in silence and thought about the bomb in the trunk, secured and protected with foam padding and blankets. Elfego had said the precautions were unnecessary. “It’s dynamite, vato, not anything unstable.” Ramón had insisted on the extra care. Linda flicked on the radio. Michael Jackson screamed into the car about his inability to say goodbye. Elfego jumped forward and slapped Linda on the back. “Shut that off!” She hit the station selector button and hurriedly turned down the volume. A melancholy Cuatro Milpas replaced the pop music. “That better?” asked Linda. Her voice came from a distance, almost inaudible. • 135 •

When the lights of the city dimmed in the background, the stars glittered across the horizon. “Look at those. Cool, huh?” No one responded. Linda shrugged and went back to thinking about what she had to do the next day—buy milk and pan dulce for her mother, make sure her younger brother had a clean shirt for school, start working on the take-home midterm for her class on Literature of Social Protest. Johnny watched the dark countryside but he was immune to any thoughts of nature or the outdoors. He was sleepy, tired, and hung over. “That guy Hidalgo, too much, huh?” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Likes to push people around, just like the cops. Maybe he is a cop? That would be too much, huh? The King, the old man of the Movement, just a cop. The viejo is a vendido. Ha.” He laughed at his weak joke. “Show some respect, Johnny,” Linda angrily responded. “He’s done more for la raza than you ever will. If anyone’s a cop or a snitch, I’d bet money on you, Johnny.” Elfego leaned over the seat and interrupted the argument. “Shut up, the both of you, You’re talking like idiots. Keep your mind on the business.” Johnny and Linda nodded.

• They were a few miles from the turnoff to the cabin when Elfego said, “Pull over, Linda. I have to take a leak.” “What? You kiddin’ me?” Johnny could not believe what he had heard. “You have to pee? What the...” “Look, it will just take a minute. We’re going to make it to the cabin before midnight, plant the damn cosa, and secure it, that takes some time, but it’s set for a little after four in the morning, when we’re back in Escobar. We can spare five minutes. I drank too much water, guess I was dry.” • 136 •

Linda guided the car onto the gravel shoulder, put the transmission in park, but kept the engine running. The stretch of highway was deserted, lonely and dark. Pine trees, shadowy mountains, and the twinkling night sky surrounded them. Elfego reached for the door handle. His hands were sweaty and his fingers trembled a bit. Linda looked anxiously over her shoulder while the skinny, dark man appeared to struggle to sit up and lift his legs to climb out of the car. Johnny slouched even lower in his seat, upset that their leader could not control his bladder. The bomb went off before Elfego left the car. The explosion lit up the calm stretch of road, bounced among the trees, and echoed off the mountains to the turnoff where Detective Nye waited with a dozen other law enforcement officers from three different federal agencies. The flash of orange and red lasted only a second but it mesmerized Nye. When he finally spoke, he whispered, “Goddamn. Those dumb bastards must have set off the fucking thing. Damn, damn, damn!” One of the federal agents looked worried. He said, “Christ, I hope our guy got out.” “I say good riddance,” Nye said. “The snitch deserves no better.” “You mean Garza? Who cares about Garza? I’m talking about our guy. He’s valuable, has a good rep for himself. These so-called revolutionaries think he’s the real deal. Years of work wasted if he didn’t get out.” Nye tossed his cigarette. “You can kiss your guy goodbye. That was a hell of a bomb they put together. We’ll be lucky to find anything left of the engine block of that car. We might scrounge up an ear or maybe an arm. Blood spatter all over the trees. Somewhere in all that mess is your guy, who now has become a martyr of the Chicano Revolution. Congratulations. We better get down there, make sure it looks all right. We got to make it look good.” • 137 •

Waiting For The Flood Escobar 1974

“Pancho! Come in. You’re soaked, man. What the hell you running around in this rain for?” Hidalgo opened the door and waved in Pancho Arango. “You look good. A little wet, but you look good.” Incessant rain pounded the windows and the gray, metallic sky dimmed the light, The two men hugged and thumped each other’s back. “Y tú también, Ramón. Real good, in fact.” Hidalgo was only forty-five years old, according to one of his stories, but his image had always been that of a man older than his age. Standing in the cramped entranceway to his modest apartment, he could have been mistaken for a grandparent who still exuded strength and vigor, but an older man, nevertheless. Although his eyes had lost their luster, Arango concluded that Ramón Hidalgo was in good physical shape. The apartment was clean and sparse. A few books spread out on the table in the small kitchen, newspapers from New York, Los Angeles and Mexico City were piled in a corner, and a portable television sat in another corner. “How are Soledad and the kids?” Hidalgo asked. “Sol has some health problems, always tired. The babies wear her out, you know how it is.” “Yeah, I used to know. I hope she feels better.” Pancho was deeply worried about his wife but he did not want to talk about it with Hidalgo. “I think the flood is coming,” Pancho said. “This could be it.” • 138 •

Hidalgo laughed at Arango’s allusion. “There are days, Pancho, I feel as old as Noah. A real viejo. I’m waiting for the flood, waiting for anything, these days.” Hidalgo offered a beer, and the two sat and drank for a few minutes. “The streets are flooded,” Pancho said. “On the way over here I had to stop at the Crescent Street overpass. Some people were trapped in their cars. I tried to help them out, me and about a half-dozen guys without papers from a little village in Zacatecas. They looked like they were all brothers. One of them got swept away and ended on the roof of a flooded car with people trying to help. A fire truck finally showed up and we all split. I could tell the guys didn’t want to leave their brother, but what were they going to do? The border crossed us, as they say, and now some of us are actually called illegal. What a bunch of shit.” Hidalgo’s eyes gleamed for a brief instant at Pancho’s story. “Same old stuff, eh?” he mumbled.”How’s the new job. You’re working for El Sol, right? The community newspaper?” “Yeah, my life has changed a lot. It’s my first real job. A bunch of ex-UMAS members started the paper. El Sol - The Sun. Shedding Light on the Truth! That’s the motto. I’m the oldest guy there, and the one with the most kids.” “I heard you named them Quetzal, Tonantzin. That right?” “Yeah—Soledad wouldn’t have it any other way. I think the next one will be stuck with Xochitlol. Crazy, no?” Both men laughed quiet laughs, tinged with nostalgia. They stared at their beers for a few seconds. “Nothing ever came of the grand jury, right?” Pancho said. “No, but they tried like hell to pin the Garza explosion on me and La Fuerza. They wanted to make a case against us. But that’s all over now. All of it.” Pancho took Hidalgo’s words to have different meanings. The organization had withered away. The name La Fuerza was used sporadically by various former members and activists to assert a threat, but no one took it seriously anymore. Only Tino • 139 •

García remained in the spotlight. He rabble-roused for years, a thorn in the side of politicians, cops, teachers, and anyone else who stepped into the shoes of opportunists and exploiters. But it was at a much quieter level. The times had changed, strategies had evolved. Tino was good at what he did. He remained articulate, forceful, and appeared to be untouchable in terms of scandal or weakness. The same had not been true for Ramón Hidalgo. Pancho knew that Hidalgo and García had not spoken since their famous fight. “You’ve heard about this guy Parrish running for the Senate?” Pancho’s awkward question hung in the air, waiting for someone to shoot it down. “You heard how they’re going to market him?” Hidalgo stared at Pancho. “Just say it, Pancho. You act like you can’t talk to me. Like you can’t just say what it is that’s on your mind. After all we been through? Come on, man, what is it that you want to know?” “Okay. You’re right. No need to beat around the bush. I’ve been told that you’re endorsing Parrish. That you’re going to urge Chicanos to register as Democrats and vote for Parrish at the primary, so that he will get the nomination. That you will stand on the same stage as Parrish and his uncle, Philip Robinson. I hear that your support means help with the Small Business Administration, that maybe you can get back into building supplies, especially since Philip Robinson managed to build his construction company into one of the largest outfits between Kansas City and Los Angeles, and that he will be one of your major customers. I hear all that, Ramón, and so I thought we should talk about it.” Hidalgo’s head bounced up and down. He shifted the beer bottle from one hand to the other. “Look around, Pancho. This is me. This is all I got. My wife is dead, my kids won’t talk to me, I scrape enough together to pay rent on this hole, buy a six pack, smokes, and that’s it. I got nothing, man. Is there some reason I shouldn’t do what I can to have a few years without all of the bullshit? Is there something I’m missing? Do you know • 140 •

something I don’t, Pancho? If you do, tell me, amigo. I need to hear it.” Pancho Arango’s fingers trembled. The words he wanted to say hid in his heart. He choked on his coraje. “What happened, Ramón? You never cared about where you lived or what you owned—none of that mattered. We all looked to you, we all turned to you for the model. When the times were the toughest, you were the example on how to carry on. You were never perfect, Christ no. We all knew that but we also saw the strength and commitment. You and Cat . . .” Arango quit talking. Catarina’s name had opened Hidalgo’s wound. The older man appeared smaller, grayer, and weaker. The tip of Hidalgo’s tongue protruded from between his teeth. His jaw muscles clenched. “You never were any good at the details, man.” Hidalgo talked as though he had to defend himself against Arango’s questions. “Everything was the big picture for you. No time to worry about logistics, basic survival. I always blamed you for the failure of our march across the state against the pinche Vietnam War. How could we run out of water and food on the third day? How did we let those biker goons disrupt the march? And then for us to get arrested because we didn’t have a permit? What revolutionaries! Pay attention to details should have been our slogan.” Arango stood up, walked across the room, waited while Hidalgo stood, then he hugged Hidalgo and said, “I don’t understand what you’re saying or why but you quit making sense a long time ago. Goodbye, Ramón. There’s nothing else to say.” Hidalgo slouched, then he breathed deeply. He pulled himself together, straightened his spine and his shoulders. He said, “You have to see what this is about, Pancho. There is a new movement, a new politics. Everything changes; everything becomes something else. It’s time for me to move ahead with the times. I’ve met Lee Parrish, I know where he’s coming from. He has some ideas, damn good ideas. He runs the largest ranch in the northern part of the state.” • 141 •

“You mean he owns it. I doubt he runs it. Probably raza that do all the work.” “Whatever, man. The Sixties are over, hombre. Parrish is a man for these times. He’s nothing like his uncle. He’s married to a woman from Argentina. His kids speak English and Spanish. I could care less about his pinche uncle. He has nothing to do with this. This is between Parrish and me, and what I can do for his campaign. There are people in the Democratic Party who still respect what I can do, who want to hear what I have to say. There are . . .” Arango turned abruptly. He knocked the beer cans off the coffee table. He tripped on the throw rug and landed on his knees. Hidalgo offered his hand to help him up. Arango stood on his own. He took a few steps and he was at the doorway. He opened the door, hesitated, and then walked out.

• 142 •

La Gata Negra Albuquerque, New Mexico 1983

By the 1980s Ramon Hidalgo was a forgotten man. A few Chicano professors included him in their academic studies, college textbooks, and magazine articles, but the public had let him vanish. Ramón Hidalgo did not read the books and articles. He did not bend under the weight of history that had been dumped on him. He used his few remaining connections and whatever cachet was left from his association with Lee Parrish to secure funds for wild ventures that ended ignominiously. When he had run through all the old politicians and Movement heavies who would still talk to him and front him some money, he chucked it all and started over. At fifty, Ramón Hidalgo realized that there was nothing left for him in Escobar. He looked at a torn and yellowed map of Aztlán and settled on a city that he had enjoyed for the music, food, and general culture, a city smaller than Escobar. He moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and he returned to what he knew best—selling. He had always prided himself on his timing. He found Catarina when he needed her and he later said that she turned his life around; he teamed up with Tino García at the beginning of the Movement and together they made history; he created Fuerza de la Raza when the times demanded such an organization and he knew that good had come from the organization, justice had occasionally triumphed. But after moving to New Mexico he thought he had exhausted his grace with the timing gods. • 143 •

Hidalgo struggled for a few years at various jobs that involved convincing someone that they needed what he had for sale—used cars, life insurance; he even sold encyclopedias again for a few months—and then one day he declared that he was completely on his own, no more bosses. Hidalgo rented a neglected storefront near where the old Route 66 merged into decaying Central Avenue and he turned the space into a combination coffee shop, segunda, bookstore, and art gallery. When the mood struck him he sold homemade burritos with the coffee and tea. He named his shop La Gata Negra and the fanciest thing about the business was the shop’s logo—a sleek and slylooking black female cat. . . .

• Hidalgo sat next to a young Chicano wearing a black T-shirt with a silk-screened photograph of four longhaired boys in ripped jeans, leather jackets and sunglasses. Hidalgo thought they looked vaguely Mexican. The word Ramones was smeared across the shirt, under the photo. The T-shirt produced a smile but he made no comment about it. “Hey, what’s up?” the youth asked. To Roberto Urban, the older man was just another bus rider, another worker bee. Ramón Hidalgo did not hide his identity, although he now sported a full-blown beard in addition to his graying mustache. His name and face did not mean anything anymore, at least not on the streets of Albuquerque, a city with its own Movement heroes, heroines, martyrs, saints, and failures. “Buenos días, Beto. Another day of classes, or you work today?” “Nah, Mr. Hidalgo. Midterm. Intro to Political Science. I’m gonna ace it because if there is one thing I know, it’s politics.” He paused. “But I got to work, too. Tonight. You know how it is.” • 144 •

“Yeah, I know. Political Science, huh? Like current events or political strategy, elections, that kind of stuff?” “This class is all about theory, demographics, how strategy and tactics control the balance of power. Detente and tactical alliances and how war is one of several political options. My other classes deal with current events.” Hidalgo nodded. He looked over his fellow passengers. They were brown-skinned, tired-looking, worn-out laborers: house cleaners, clerks, maintenance men, a pair of construction workers, a few students, janitors and hotel maids, primarily Mexican Americans or Native Americans on their way to work. A few were ending graveyard shifts. A young woman slept with her head resting on the shoulder of an older woman who struggled to stay awake. Hidalgo remembered a young Catarina leaning on her mother for support when he had been hauled off to prison. No one noticed Hidalgo. The bus was a very early morning ride and the commuters were too sleepy and too drained to pay much attention to anyone else. “Hear what your crazy President did last night?” Beto asked. “Ronnie Raygun isn’t my President—he’s not the President of anyone on this bus. But yeah, I heard—he declared 1983 to be the Year of the Bible. Ain’t that a joke?” “Pity the fool.” Beto chewed gum while he talked. “The country’s in the economic toilet, his approval rating is lower than a dog’s cojones, and he wants to talk about the Bible. These Republicans got nerve. Give them that. Talk to any of them and you wouldn’t know that the U.S. is in the worst recession since the Depression, or that unemployment has not been this high since the 1930s. Business after business has failed, just look around these streets. And what about all the homeless men, women and children wandering around like some sort of lost, desperate tribe? Stay the course, my ass.” “You don’t think he knows what he’s doing?” “Oh, he thinks he knows what he’s doing. His handlers make sure of that. But that guy does not have a clue about • 145 •

running a country, how government works, any of that. On the other hand, he sure believes that the end of the world is coming, any day now. He’s said that a number of times. Thinks his generation is the generation that will see Armageddon. So, what the hell. Spout off about Communism and Latin American dictators—anything to keep the people’s minds off what is really going on in this country. That way he can give the wealthy a few more tax breaks, gut a few more programs that may help those without money, and take care of rich, white people while the rest of us wait for blessings to trickle down.” Hidalgo’s heart picked up a beat. The young man’s words reminded him of days when such talk was all he heard, when he spent hours discussing and debating the evils of capitalism and U.S. imperialism with other young men and women, just as bright and eager for change as Beto Urban. “And what if he turns out to be right, Beto? What if his supply side bull works? Then what will you say?” “Please. If this country gets corrected, as my economic prof says, it won’t be because of any of Reagan’s nonsense. He’s going to have to tone down the rhetoric and take care of business, and I don’t mean big business. Raise some taxes, do something about the budget deficit, deal with inflation. Of course, when that happens, it will be so slick, like that was what he was talking about all along. Politicians can have it both ways—that’s the American ideal.” Hidalgo yanked the cord hanging near the bus window. “And even if that happens,” Beto wanted to finish his thought before his listener left the bus, “it won’t make one damn bit of difference to you or me or anyone else riding this bus. We’re on the bus of nobodies, going nowhere.” “Come by the shop later, Mr. Nobody. Maybe you get a free cup of coffee and a pastel, assuming you come through on that test. I just picked up a box of used books of poetry by a couple of penitentiary poets—Sánchez, Salinas, those guys. Even something by José Montoya. You do good on that test, I might give you one.” • 146 •

“No sweat, brother. I’ll be by this afternoon.” Hidalgo stepped from the bus onto a nearly deserted sidewalk. The clean New Mexican air invigorated him. He sucked in huge gulps of oxygen then walked a few blocks to his place, where he stood for a minute. He stared up and down the street. Hidalgo opened at 7:00 A.M. each day, but he unlocked the door at six. He couldn’t sleep any later than five and he would rather be in his business than his small, quiet and lonely house. He lived close to Old Town but he never ventured into the tourist sections of his adopted city. He took a bus to his business, occasionally ate dinner at places like García’s, once in a while wandered around his neighborhood, but that was about it. The King’s existence had become a mundane and repetitive exercise. But he loved his shop. The place was his focus. He had a new reason to keep on going. He loaned books to Chicano kids who needed to read Rudolfo Anaya’s Bless Me, Ultima because they had no clue about their place in the history and culture of New Mexico. He sold tapes of Al Hurricane and Roberto Griego to University of New Mexico students who needed Chicano music to maintain their equilibrium in the imposing and often indifferent world of higher education. He made coffee for poets and singers and artists and talked with them into the night and early morning about art and music and literature and la cultura. Never about the Movement. He was the old man, the viejo who ran the funky coffee shop, who more likely than not would have no interest in collecting money for the coffee, juice and pastries, but who could go on for hours about everything from how to lay brick, to what the next election would mean for the generations as yet unborn, to the promising future of American literature because of the recent publication of Chicana poets such as Lorna Dee Cervantes, Sandra Cisneros and Lucha Corpi. It took him a few minutes to get inside his shop. He had three locks on two different doors. Albuquerque was in the midst of a crime spree—holdups, robberies, assaults, car jackings—and • 147 •

Hidalgo took what steps he could afford to protect his inventory of Latino Literature, Tejano and New Mexican cassette tapes, local poet chapbooks, and the vivid art of several New Mexican artists not quite ready for Santa Fe. An epidemic of drug abuse—heroin or crack, your pick— had invaded the city and taken hold in the barrios, car clubs, and high schools. At least that’s what the newspapers reported. The junkies had conquered northern New Mexico; they were even corrupting the tranquil village of Chimayó, known for its sacred dirt and classic mission-style church. Albuquerque was the hub, the center for distribution and bulk sales of the illegal drugs. On the direct route from El Paso and Ciudad Juárez to larger metropolitan areas, the Duke City was a natural stopover for drug smugglers and peddlers. And that had helped make Albuquerque a city of desperate addicts and violence-prone thieves who were drawn by images of barrels of narcotics stashed in out-of-the-way garages and storage sheds, and teetering bundles of freshly-wrapped money. The idea that he might be living in the middle of a crime wave did not bother him. He felt comfortable in New Mexico. “Mi gente, my people.” No one had any money, everyone worked hard, the parties and the music were the best, and the chile, rojo o verde, was delicious. The criminals messed with their own kind or the cops, while the cops—well, they were cops, dangerous no matter where he lived. “This could be what Aztlán is really all about,” he had declared one morning over coffee in his shop, while a snow storm painted the landscape white, transformed the sky to gray, and subdued the early morning tension of the city. His audience was a Vietnam veteran from one of the pueblos who had run out of money at the bus station. He was trying to get to Jémez, he insisted. Hidalgo had let him sleep in the back room of the shop. After they finished their coffee, Hidalgo gave the transient ten bucks and an old jacket and pointed him in the direction back to the bus station. Hidalgo knew that the man’s only chance was on the bus before the bars along Central opened up. • 148 •

He walked in the store, turned on the overhead fan, headed to the bathroom to wash his hands so he could start making coffee and blending juices. When he came out rubbing a towel over his stubby, chocolate-colored fingers, he stared into the bloodshot eyes of a chocolate-colored young man holding a revolver in two shaking hands. He dropped the towel and let the robber see that his hands were empty. “Easy, kid. There ain’t no money here. Not yet. You’re too early.” The young man was nervous but his icy stare never left Hidalgo. His words were deliberate, practiced: “Your money. Now. Give it up or you’re dead, viejo.” He licked his cracked, filmy lips. Hidalgo tried to smile. “There isn’t any money in the register. No hay dinero aquí. There’s no safe in this place. We don’t need one. You can have my wallet, but it’s empty, too. Your bad luck to pick this place. Here, look, here’s my wallet.” He reached to his back pocket and with his left hand pulled out the thin, stained brown leather wallet that one of his children had given him for a Father’s Day so many years before that he could not remember the actual event. He opened it and spread the sleeve—nothing. “See, empty.” The thief ’s cracked lips trembled as badly as his hands. He said one word, “Anna,” then he shot Ramón Hidalgo with one bullet through the hand holding the wallet and one more bullet through the thigh as the wounded man spun and fell to the floor.

• The clean-shaven man looked vaguely familiar. Something about his chin and the way he carried himself brushed off a memory covered with bitterness. His long steps into the hospital room were filled with confidence, maybe a bit of swagger. He had on a lightweight tan suit, brown loafers, a pale yellow • 149 •

shirt and a dark brown almost mahogany-colored tie. He carried a thin leather case and a book. “Mr. Hidalgo?” he asked. Ramón nodded. The effort produced pain through his arm and shattered leg. “What can I do for you?” “You don’t remember me. Understandable. The last time you saw me I was a teenager with long greasy hair and a really bad attitude. I hung around in the background while you and my father would talk about the latest arrests, the strategy to set up a defense fund, the need to rally the people for one more political trial. I sulked a lot back then.” “You’re Josh’s boy. But you sure dress better than he ever did. Raúl Simón Emiliano Ortiz Abraham.” Hidalgo nodded his head as he made the connection. “Your mother named you. I was at what they called your bris slash baptism. Your parents couldn’t settle on one ceremony. They were like that. You almost got worked over that day—cut, then dunked in water. When they realized that they weren’t all that religious and it didn’t matter, they just had a party. No wonder you grew up with a chip on your shoulder. How are they? Your parents, I mean.” Before the man could answer, Hidalgo said, “What are you doing here?” Raúl Abraham looked over the room, eyed the machines hooked up to Hidalgo’s chest and arms. “My father died a few years ago—he had moved to Nicaragua and got caught up with all that stuff down there.” He thought that he should be quick and to the point about his family’s history. “He was there when Somoza was thrown out, but he disappeared when the Contras started the counter-revolution. We never saw him again. We don’t know what happened to him. My mother still lives in Escobar. And I’m a lawyer now.” The last part was meant to partially answer Hidalgo’s question about why he was there in the hospital room of a man he did not know, and in a town where he had no business. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man, a great man, in fact. He did so much for people that no one ever knew about and he was a damn fine lawyer. One of the best, and • 150 •

I saw a lot of lawyers over the years. If you are half as good as your old man, you probably got all the legal eagles in Escobar running with their tail feathers between their legs.” “Thank you. My father thought highly of you, too. He would tell me stories about the things you did, and how you two worked together. I know he would want me to make sure that you have what you need here, that you’re taken care of. He admired you, even when, when . . .” “Yeah, even when everyone else gave up on me. And I gave up on them. He wrote a few letters when I hit bottom, and then they stopped. Must have been when he left the country. He had revolution and socialism running in his veins. The Movement could have used more people like Josh Abraham.” For a few seconds the two men were silent. In their own way they paid their respects to the man they knew as father and counselor. “And how is Lourdes?” Hidalgo asked. “She was a rock, back when.” “She’s well, as strong as ever. She’s worried about you— she’s the reason I’m here.” He placed the book on the side table. “At least my father’s book got published. It’s about him, of course. Here’s a copy he signed for you, one of the last things he sent us. You’re in it, several times.” The book’s title was Lawyer for the People: The Life and Times of Josh Abraham. A black-and-white photograph of a smiling, long-haired young man wearing an ill-fitting plaid sport coat graced the cover. “He always said he would write a book, liberate the truth, he liked to say.” Abraham reached into his case and pulled out a large brown envelope. He opened the envelope and withdrew a check. “When the news hit about your shooting and how you didn’t have insurance, and some of the other things that the papers said, all that radical, militant history, as though you were some sort of wild-eyed, mad anarchist, my mother started • 151 •

getting calls and letters from all kinds of folks. People who remembered my father and you, and the close ties you two had at one time. So they peppered my mother with questions and said they wanted to help. She organized a small campaign, a phone tree. And she got some contributions. To help you out, pay for the doctors and decent care. My mother asked me to handle it. I guess they thought they could trust Lourdes Abraham better than a bank or the hospital. I put it all in one account, and here it is. Along with a list of the donors.” Hidalgo quickly scanned the check. The amount was $4,312.00. The list was two pages with more than a hundred names. Next to each name was the sum of their donation. The figures ranged from $1.00 to $500.00 and the names set off a slideshow of sentimental but disjointed images: Lydia Salinas; Silvia Cruz; Danny Rivera; Lourdes, Jacob and Raúl Abraham; Matilda Garza; Mary Sandoval-Chávez. Hidalgo choked up. The check slipped from his fingers and fell on the thin sheet of the hospital bed. Abraham opened the leather case again and extracted an inch-thick bundle of yellowed papers, some on onionskin, some carbon copies, others that looked elegant with flourished signatures and wax seals. “When my father slipped out of the country, he set up things for my mother and his sons, made sure we were protected. He secured money for us, paid off the house in Escobar, had a college fund in place for Jake and me.” “Yeah, Josh, would do that.” Hidalgo said. “He hated the capitalist system but he understood survival and how to make money work for him. He tried to teach me all that, but I could never get it.” Hidalgo wanted to ask where this was all going, but he gave his friend’s son the time he needed to get it out. “And he left us a deed to a small parcel of land and a shack that he had been given when he was a young lawyer starting out,” Abraham continued. “He represented a group of farmers in a fight against an out-of-state big shot who was trying to take control of their water and grazing rights. He kicked ass and his clients repaid him with a gift of land, but the • 152 •

land was here in New Mexico. You know those people in the southern part of the state; they have roots two hundred years old that spread from their lands to Southern Colorado all the way down to Santa Fe and even further south. The farmers pitched in and gave Dad the deed to the ranchito that had been in one of their family’s names since Oñate. He never did anything with it, of course. I think he always felt guilty about owning land that rightfully belonged to Chicanos. So, he let the people who lived in the community use the land and water as long as they watched the shack and patched the roof when it needed it.” Hidalgo nodded and the tubes sticking in his arms shook. “Ha. I can’t see Josh growing corn and chiles, feeding goats, or butchering a pig. He liked city life too much for all that.” “Like I said, my father admired you. When my mother heard about what happened to you she called me the same day. She had me do some checking and I learned that things haven’t been all that good for you.” He paused. He did not want to embarrass his parents’ old friend. “You may own your business, but it doesn’t really make money. You rent a house and sometimes you have to do work for the landlord to keep from being evicted. Because you don’t have insurance they’re ready to throw you out of this hospital any day now. And I know that the police harassed you about the shooting, tried to get you to say it had something to do with your old activism. As far as I know, you didn’t even describe the shooter. No one was arrested for shooting you.” “Yeah, I guess you did do some checking. I should be okay with that?” “My mother can be just as stubborn as my father ever was, and she can lean on me heavy. She’s made me pay for all the sins I might have committed as a kid at least a dozen times over, and I’m sure my penance isn’t over yet. She set her mind to do something for you when she heard about your situation. She thought about it for days, and finally she had me draw up papers and she deeded you the land and the shack.” • 153 •

Hidalgo blinked his eyes. He was sweating under the sheet and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the warm institutional air or the young lawyer’s words. “It’s not much.” Raúl Abraham fingered the papers, looking for a particular page of the land’s records. “I went by there on my way down here. The land is between Truchas and Córdova. Beautiful, but rugged. The house has water and electricity, most of the time, a huge, cast-iron stove that must weigh a ton— probably why no one has taken it—and the property sits on the side of a mountain that overlooks the valley between the two villages.” He found a photograph and handed it to Hidalgo. “It’s not much,” he repeated, “but my mother knows that I will never need the place. I haven’t even been there since I ran away from home when I was fourteen, and the last time she was there was when my father was ready to leave the country. She’s positive that Josh would want you to have it. She signed the deed and I recorded it. It’s all yours, to do whatever you want with it. Sell it and make a little money. Plenty of Texans want to own New Mexican land. Or rent it out. Whatever.” He dumped the bundle of papers on the bed. “Here’s the entire documentary history of your land. Everything you need is in this package.” Hidalgo stared at the photo of a small wooden cabin with a cracked adobe fence and a ramshackle roof. In the background he could see soft green and purple mountains, clumps of piñon trees and a sky so blue it shimmered. A dirt path led up to the front door. Some type of hawk lingered in the air above the crumbling chimney. A tear made its way down Hidalgo’s rough cheek and into his thick beard. “You think it would be okay if I just lived there?”

• 154 •

It’s Relative Cuatro Milpas, New Mexico 1990 “There are days when the only sound I hear is the buzzing of insects. Or a hawk’s scream. The summers are incredible but the winters are just as beautiful. And both are extreme. If you don’t like the good and bad that nature can throw at you, you won’t like it around here.” Hidalgo spoke slowly as he measured the young man’s response to his words. “When you get to Rudy Anaya’s place in Jémez Springs, and you start on your book, you won’t miss any of the distractions from the city. Your writing will keep you company. That’s what some of the writers tell me. But out here, on mi ranchito, unless you’re working hard, and I mean physical labor, the silence and the beauty can fill you with the spirit, or wake you up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.” “Whatever you say, Ramón.” Roberto Urban’s face glowed with the prospect of writing a book that might one day take its place in the crammed library of his host. “I need a few days until Mr. Anaya’s current guest moves out, the end of the week. Then it’s my turn to take advantage of his hospitality and camp out in his casita. And write. Write my butt off, I hope.” He stretched. “This is great that I can stay here until I can get up to Jémez. You and Mr. Anaya have that worked out?” “Yeah, in a way. Sometimes the writers he invites up to his casita get their schedules crossed, and some of them, like you, need a place to sleep for a night or two. I built this extra shed a few years ago. It’s comfortable enough, everything you need, really. I’ve lived out here myself, when I had to patch the roof or put in more flooring, or whatever it is that forces me out of the big house.” The young man had to laugh. • 155 •

“Sorry. But your house . . . uh, I wouldn’t exactly call it a big house. It’s really nice, beautiful actually, and it looks comfortable, and you’ve fixed it up with some nice art, and those bookcases are amazing. Looks like they took months to put together. But I don’t know that I would call the house big.” “It’s relative, Beto. That house is huge compared to this shed. In fact, I call this the little house. It’s yours for two days. Hope you like it.” “You’re the best, Ramón. Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. We were supposed to get together at your coffee shop the same day you got shot.” “Yeah, I remember. I remember everything about that day. You were one of my best customers. You look good. Hair’s shorter, and the earring must be new, but I recognized you as soon as I heard the dogs barking.” “I didn’t know you had moved up here until Mr. Anaya mentioned that you might have room for me for a night or two. Since I graduated from UNM and now that I’m working in Escobar I don’t have a place in New Mexico.” Hidalgo leaned on his cane and ducked his head to walk out the shed’s door. “Have a good night’s rest. All I ask is that you don’t leave anything but you can take anything you need. And if I need help, maybe you give me a hand. Tomorrow, how about going with me to gather wood?” Beto nodded enthusiastically. “What kind of book you trying to write? Chicano and Chicana writers surprise me every time something new is published. Chicano Literature? Or maybe it’s Latino Literature, these days?” “I’m developing a mystery story. A Chicano mystery story. You like that idea?” “Mystery, heh? That’s different. Rolando Hinojosa published Partners in Crime a few years back, and there’s a lawyer named Nava who may be onto the same idea, working the crime fiction genre. What’s the mystery?” “Back when, during the Movement, there was a killing, and that killing has haunted this guy who used to be heavy into the • 156 •

Movement. You think anyone will want to read it?” Hidalgo looked away from the younger man and shrugged. “Can’t say.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t worry about who wants to read it. You need to write it first. If it’s any good, I expect you’ll have readers.” He stopped. “There are all kinds of things that haunt men, Beto. It’s not always what you’d expect. I hope you do your characters justice.” He limped across the yard to the big house. He yelled back at the young writer who was spreading a sleeping bag on a cot Hidalgo had provided. “So you know. I think I built that shed on somebody’s grave. Others have told me that they wake up in the middle of the night and see an old man watching them. I think he’s harmless. At least so far. And one or two of the dogs might join you in there. Depends on if they think they hear La Llorona. The dogs are very superstitious.”

• He had created a livable situation, cozy in many ways. The first years after the shooting had been hard. Weeks in the hospital were followed by months of rehab. He had to learn how to walk again and how not to reinjure his leg. His left hand had to be retrained. When the feeling in his hand returned, he discovered that he had a grip like a vise but he could not do much with whatever he picked up. A half-dozen years in the place and he definitely had left his mark. The structure was solid, weatherproof. He had plastered over the old wooden cabin and painted it a bright white to match the clouds, he said. The adobe wall that ringed the house had taken many hours but he had repaired it and installed a sturdy wooden turquoise-colored gate. He had rebuilt the chimney and cleaned out the fireplace, thrown bags of insulation behind the walls, repaired the wooden floor and replaced many of the boards. He had filled the house with books and music • 157 •

and art—the essentials. He existed in a solitary, meditative state most of the time. During the non-winter months he could count on an occasional writer maneuvering slowly up the winding road, referred by Rudolfo Anaya, and at least once a month a neighbor would stop by to talk and check on him. He did the same when he felt the need to walk and see another human face. But those times were rare. Sometimes he ignored visitors, especially if they were reporters trying to dig up the bones of times and events that needed to stay buried, or writers working on a book about the Chicano Civil Rights Movement, as they called it now. But if they were students or fiction writers or locals, they could stay and listen to New Mexican music, or jazz or tejano or conjunto or blues; they could read everyone from Hemingway to Denise Chávez; they could admire pueblo pottery art, retablos, and hand-carved santos. Anything, but they couldn’t ask about the old days. His hours alone led to his attempts to carve wood. There was an abundance of wood around the cabin and carving a piece of wood came to him as naturally as the sun rose each day. He began with an old kitchen knife and a broken branch from a pine tree behind his house. He carved for hours at a time, talked with some of the santeros in the nearby villages, and watched what they did. He learned what he had to do with the wood to prepare it, what gesso was all about, sealers, sanding techniques, how to keep from slicing off his fingers with the different knife blades. His years in construction and the building supply business and Movement politics had stifled his creative side but he managed to awaken that part of him and the results amazed him. His injured hand worked out well for his carving. The left hand held the wood and the right hand created detailed sculptures. He turned out to be a talented woodcarver. Hundreds if not thousands of pieces of wood were sacrificed to develop that talent, but eventually he was able to transform any wood into a canvas. He progressed from primitive static images to detailed, • 158 •

flowing montages of life in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, all carved out of the native woods—pine, juniper, aspen, cottonwood. He avoided the religious themes that his neighbor artists focused on; he concentrated on local scenes: a mountain lion stalking its prey; a sheepherder finding a lost lamb on a steep trail; a young boy fishing a stream with a homemade pole; a group of ancianos talking around a wobbly kitchen table. He even made wooden pull toys out of the soft pine that he could find anywhere he looked around his home. He gave the toys to the children of his fellow woodcarvers.

• 159 •

A Sacrifice To The Sun God Escobar 1996

Pancho Arango adjusted the vase of flowers so that it stood next to the headstone. Soledad Cortez Arango October 12, 1942 - August 29, 1976 Beloved Wife and Mother The True Revolutionary Is Guided By A Great Feeling Of Love Tu Amor Es Mi Vida “Well, I’m sure you know, querida, but just in case. Quetzal gave her new son the name Edward. Don’t hold it against her. She’s still so young. I like it. I would have liked Eduardo better, but what can we do? Edward—protector of land. He’s a beautiful baby. I can tell already that he looks like you. Those eyes and nose and mouth—no one but you, mi amor. He’s going to be the smart one in the family—again, like you.” A shadow crossed over the grave. Without looking up, Pancho said, “Ramón.” “Hey, Pancho. Please excuse me intruding on you like this. I’ll wait over there.” He walked slowly with the help of a cane to the shade of an oak tree. He carried a highly polished wooden box in his free hand. Pancho watched him for a minute, then returned to his visit with Soledad. “That’s a shock, no? What could he want? I haven’t seen him for years. He left town, we all heard how he got shot in • 160 •

Albuquerque. Parece viejo, querida. He must be close to seventy, but looks ninety. What the hell you think he wants? Go ask him, you say. Yeah. Okay.” Pancho ambled over to Hidalgo. The two men shook hands. The cemetery’s trees and bushes were splashed with fall colors and the lawn had begun to lapse into its winter hibernation. The mid-morning sun blazed and pulsed in the pale sky but the sharp air was filled with a hint of winter. Pancho wore a sweater and a beret. Hidalgo hunched inside an oversized coat, his eyes shielded behind thick sunglasses. “I really am sorry to barge in.” Hidalgo talked as slowly as he walked. “I called your listing in the book. A woman answered, said you didn’t live there anymore, but when I said I was an old friend, she told me you were out here. I should have guessed. It’s Sol’s birthday, isn’t it?” “Yes. I come up here a few times a year. I live in Denver with my daughter Quetzal and her family. The woman who answered the phone is Zeenie, my other daughter. Tonantzín. You were looking for me?” “Yes. We could go have lunch or something. Remember when we knew all the Mexican joints in town? Now . . .” His voice trailed off when there was no reaction from Arango. “I’m living in New Mexico,” he continued. “But, uh, ah, I have to see a doctor, here in Escobar. A specialist that apparently can’t be found in the Land of Enchantment. New Mexico’s Medicaid program approved him treating me. I thought that while I was here I’d look you up. Never imagined we would meet out here. You know, Catarina’s buried here, too. Over there, on the other side of the road.” “I know, Ramón. I stop by her spot, too, whenever I come here for Soledad.” “That’s good. Thank you, Pancho.” Then he added, “I tried to find Tino but the university said he retired a few years ago.” • 161 •

“He moved on. Last I heard he was farming somewhere in Texas. He might have finally got married.” “Back to farm work? Ha.” “Was there something...?” Pancho asked. “Well, yeah. Look at us, like we got our tongues tied to our feet. Can’t talk, can’t say what we should say to each other. It’s been way too long, Pancho. I should ask how you are, what’s going on in your life. You look good, hombre.” “We never had that kind of friendship, Ramón. All we ever talked about was the Movement.” “Yeah. I know what you mean.” His body flinched and he stepped back slightly, as though he had lost his balance. “You okay?” Pancho asked with more concern than he had thought he had. “Hell no, man. I’m a wreck. I had to travel hundreds of miles just to see a doctor, remember? My blood’s all chingered. Doctors can’t figure it out. I told them it’s from when I worked in the fields. When I was a kid I got sprayed with just about every poison known to man back then. Some they still don’t have classified. So, they run tests. Dozens of tests. I got so much crap going on with me that it’s easier if I tell you what I don’t have. I don’t have TB or polio or epilepsy. That’s about it.” “I wish I could say something that would help you, but I can’t, Ramón. I can’t.” “Don’t sweat it, viejo. Mira, one reason I wanted to see you. There’s something I need to tell you. I don’t know why, really, but I got to tell someone.” He paused, took a deep breath. Panco did not know what to expect. “The prison years were bad, Pancho. I never could bring myself to talk about those years. They were ugly years of violence and hatred. Every damn day was a nightmare, a dark, vicious nightmare. I had to make deals with other men in order to keep my sanity. I needed protection and I provided protection—that was the system. The Mexicanos were outnumbered and we had to stick together, but anyone was capable of selling • 162 •

out a brother, for the right price. I did my share of selling and buying—hey, bro, I was born to sell, a great salesman, did you know that?” Pancho did not reply. “I killed a man inside the walls, Pancho. Never admitted that to anyone in the organization, not even Cat.” Pancho nodded, not surprised. “He came at me on a work crew. We were clearing weeds and cleaning up a curvy stretch of the Skyline Drive on the edge of Cañon City, behind the joint, Old Max. He claimed to be a cousin of somebody who had a grudge against me, from my time in the fields. He latched on to me in the yard and hassled me for days, wouldn’t listen that I didn’t know his cabrón primo, had never even bumped into him. A pendejo strung out on horse, doing time for selling weed, of all things. Remember those locos from Colorado who came to one of our meetings? Said they were East Siders, like that meant anything. You remember those guys then you know what I’m talking about when I say this vato was out there.” “Sorry, I don’t remember.” “Never mind. The punk was wrong, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was that kind of thing. Maybe it was just an excuse for chingazos. There were a dozen of us spread out along the road, wearing orange vests and ankle shackles. They had us in pairs and of course I get teamed up with the man who wants to hurt me. Two guards patrolled up and down with shotguns, but there were several minutes every hour when at least one of the pairs of convicts was isolated and alone. That drive is sharp and on the edge of the steep hill. The guards knew we were not going anywhere, we were all short-timers, and if we tried to run they could catch up with any of us without working up a sweat. They just had to wait for us at the bottom of the hill.” A cold breeze whipped through the cemetery. Pancho pulled his beret tighter around his head. “He had a shiv, the famous toothbrush model,” Hidalgo continued. “We were at a bend in the road. He lunged at me; • 163 •

I stepped out of the way and tripped him. He went down, I jabbed him with his own weapon, in the side. He grunted and started to bleed. He whimpered for help, begged, said that he only meant to scare me, teach me a lesson. I dragged him a few feet and threw him over, straight onto Highway 50. He rolled all the way like a rag doll and ended up right in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Officially, a terrible accident. I think one of the guards even got suspended for a week or two. The way I say it, you might think it came easy. Maybe doing it—the actual killing—maybe that came easy. After, that was the hard part. Thinking about that guy, about the way he died. It wasn’t pretty. I had to tell someone. Back then I had to trust Chuy Pacheco. He’s the only one who ever knew. Sometimes I had to laugh about it, which was the only way I could hang with it. Laughing at one of my scars, Pancho. That was when I realized what the pen had done to me. I had tried to kill Big Bill, but that was selfdefense. I guess I could say the same about the punk in prison. That wouldn’t fool you, though, would it Pancho?” Pancho stared at Hidalgo. “Pancho, it was a senseless death, a useless death but a death I needed in order to survive. Another death of a desperate brown man caused by yet another desperate brown man. But that’s what it was about. Survival. That was the deal that went down, that I understood. Do what you have to do to survive. One of those details you never grasped, Pancho.” The silence between the two men dropped around their shoulders like dead weight. “I didn’t want to dredge up old news or old blues. I had no idea I was going to tell you all that. But, he wasn’t the only one. I got others to pay for. Johnny , Paco . . .” Pancho grabbed Hidalgo’s arm and stopped him. “Don’t, Ramón. You don’t need to tell me this, and I don’t need to hear it. I’m not the one to tell.” Hidalgo nodded. “The fact is,” Hidalgo quietly said, “the real reason I wanted to talk with you is I heard you have a new grandson. Wonderful. I spent a few minutes with Lourdes Abraham. What a woman • 164 •

she is.” His voice grew louder. “She told me that you were an abuelito, a couple of times now. I was going to give her this, for all she’s done for me, but she said it would be better for you and the new Chicanito. I agreed—it is something for the latest nieto. Not that he will appreciate it just yet. It’s only something I did, and I thought that maybe one day, when he’s much older, he might like it or he can sell it or something.” He handed the box to Arango. Arango raised the wooden lid. “You did this?” “Yeah. Can’t believe it, heh? I call it Sacrifice to the Sun God. That might be too dramatic for such a piece, but it’s what stuck in my head while I was carving it. It’s a bit of history for your grandson. Some days, that’s all we got—history.” The base of the carving was more than two feet long and six inches wide. A four inch man on his knees wielded a short-handled hoe. Stalks of corn were weighed down with an abundant crop. The man and his garden were carved out of one block of wood. “The man is a migrant worker,” Hidalgo said. “I knew a lot of men like him when I was growing up.” Pancho studied the carving. A crow pranced under one of the corn stalks. Wrinkles creased the carved man’s forehead. The man’s left hand twisted at an awkward angle. A tiny cane lay in a row of corn where water appeared to slowly sink into the earth. Pancho looked at Hidalgo’s real cane. Its knob was a dignified noble head with the three faces of the Spaniard, Native and Mestizo. The carving was an exact duplicate of an image created by the Colorado artist Emanuel Martínez three decades ago. The miniature carved cane had the same mestizo head. A high-pitched giggle interrupted Hidalgo and Arango. A thin young man and an even thinner but shorter young woman stared at Hidalgo and Arango. They were dressed in black jeans, black T-shirts and black boots. Their hair spiked over their gray skulls in blue and red hues. The girl gripped a marijuana joint. • 165 •

“Look at this,” the boy said. “A couple of old beaners out here in the graveyard. What you think they’re up to, Bo?” “They look like faggots. Hey! You beaners trying to cop a piece of ass from each other?” The boy and girl laughed. “You believe this, Ramón? Some shit does not change.” “Get lost, punks,” Hidalgo shouted at the pair. The young man frowned. “What? You got some balls, old man. I should kick your ass. How’s that sound?” “Come on, punk.” Hidalgo’s anger had taken over. “You got the nerve to tangle with an old man walking on a cane, with only one good hand?” Hidalgo and Arango stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at their tormentors. Pancho thought of Oscar’s commemoration march and the police riot. He recalled standing next to Hidalgo, waiting to be attacked, anticipating the blows from the batons and the disorienting sting of the tear gas, expecting to be overwhelmed and punished for standing up for La Raza. Hidalgo’s mind returned to the day he became friends with Tino García. Without any awareness of what he was doing, he patted his pockets for a switchblade. The girl giggled again. The boy grabbed the joint and took a deep pull on the smoke. Hidalgo and Arango continued to stare. The girl stopped giggling. The boy shuffled his feet. “Hey, what is this?” A tall, blond man wearing dusty coveralls appeared from a clump of trees near the road. “What are you kids doing? Is that marijuana? I’m calling the cops.” He pulled a walkie-talkie from one of his pants pockets. The boy and girl took off running. The man jogged to Hidalgo and Arango. “You guys okay? Did they do anything? We got a lot of trouble with those hoodlums and their pals. They get high, get drunk. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve caught them doing out here. No respect. These kids got no respect.” • 166 •

Hidalgo said, “Thanks. We’re okay. Nothing we can’t handle.” “Well, okay. I’ll see if I can track them down. I’m calling the cops anyway.” The caretaker sprinted in the same direction that the boy and girl had run. “Where are the parents?” Hidalgo had nothing else to say about the episode. Pancho looked closely at Hidalgo’s gift. “Thanks for this, Ramón. It’s beautiful.” He lifted the box to eye level. “You don’t have to tell your grandson anything about the woodcarver, Pancho. Just give him the story in the art. That’s more important than the artist. He doesn’t need to know the artist’s story.” They talked for a few minutes more but neither man paid attention to what they were saying. Abruptly and awkwardly, they said their goodbyes. Hidalgo disappeared into the trees from where the caretaker had emerged. Pancho stared at the spot where Hidalgo had vanished. He shook his head, walked away from the trees, then stopped at Soledad’s grave again. “I swear, querida. There’s some kind of curse on that man. He’s shadowed by events and experiences that most of us will never know or understand. He can’t avoid it, and when it happens to him, most of the time others are dragged along. Look at what just happened. Can you believe it? And quit laughing at us. What if that caretaker had not come along? Man, oh man. It would have been just like the old days.”

• 167 •

Cuatro Milpas Cuatro Milpas, New Mexico 1999

Ramón Hidalgo set down the book he had been reading. It had come in the mail, a gift from Roberto Urban, who usually knew what he was talking about when it came to books. He taught Chicano Literature in California, didn’t he? Hidalgo appreciated the course that his former coffee shop’s customer’s life had taken. He had earned his B.A. in Political Science and tried to do something with it—he had even toyed around with the idea of law school. But, eventually, his degree had been of little use when Urban had recognized that books and reading and writing were what he valued most and that he needed to teach literature. On the other hand, the fact that Roberto had published four collections of poetry since he had graduated had caught the attention of the hiring committee at Cal State, Northridge, when they needed a combination Chicano Studies and English associate professor. The book was a thank-you for Hidalgo’s reading and editing of his latest poetic venture: Mezcla: This Mestizo Thing Has Me All Mixed Up. The poetry poked fun at the author and his attempts to rationalize his existence as a middle-class, middleaged, successful Latino who still thought of himself as a young, struggling Chicano. Hidalgo had enjoyed the poems and he had sent Roberto a congratulatory letter with a few minor corrections and edits for the pieces. Alfredo Véa’s Gods Go Begging had lived up to Roberto’s praise. Hidalgo had been impressed with the broad, extravagant novel about a Vietnam veteran, then criminal defense attorney, who took up the case of a young African American accused of a brutal double murder of two women. But that basic idea was • 168 •

set among so many others, including the personal devastation of war, the strength of love in the face of pain and death, and the twisted interior of a man taken over by loneliness, that Hidalgo did not know how to classify the book. “A beautiful book,” he had concluded. Véa’s writing had made him uneasy, and that was always a good sign with any book. The book was complex—an exquisite vocabulary combined with a fine eye for detail—and voracious in its appetite for all of life’s flavors, textures, smells, and colors. It had challenged many of his notions of maleness, and supported the behavior that he had always considered was true honor and courage. It had helped him believe again in the multi-hued fabric of the people whom he had always simply referred to as “people of color.” The book was filled with passion and that was more than enough for Ramón Hidalgo. “Thank you, Beto,” he mumbled aloud. “These writers just keep on pushing. I’d love to have a conversation with this guy Véa one day.” He stood up and wandered carelessly to the table where his copy of Roberto’s manuscript lay scattered. He turned on his radio and a lively dance version of Cuatro Milpas came on. “That must be Zecreto and Rubén Garza. I like the way they do that song.” He felt a tug in his chest; a slight but sharp pull that added extra beats to his heart’s rhythm. He ignored the familiar feeling. He had survived. He sold his art on commission at the collective trading store in Truchas where he made enough money to buy books, music, and the work of other artists. He grew corn, chiles, tomatoes, other vegetables, and he looked after a small herd of goats. He sold what he could, including his homemade goat cheese with green chile and cilantro. He missed his children but he tried not to dwell on the loneliness. He walked outside the house and stood in the sun in the pine-scented air. His dogs ran up to him and yelped at his feet. He smiled. He looked over the valley. Smoke rose • 169 •

from somewhere along the far ridge. A shiny spot of sunshine reflected off a slow-moving windshield as it made its way down the highway. The winter had been cold but dry, and the spring had started as dry as the winter, but Hidalgo thought that was going to change. The earth in his yard was hard. His corn and chile plants had endured, but only barely and only because he had spent hours with them, guiding them through the days and nights of heat and scarce water. “At least the dogs aren’t tracking in any mud,” he would say whenever someone on the radio mentioned how dry the year had been. Clouds rolled and bumped across the southern sky. They were starting to darken. Summer would be wet. There would be hundreds of vegetables. He knew it. “Catarina, you would have loved this place. It’s not easy, but then, nothing we ever did was easy. I feel at home.” He collapsed to his knees. He tried to grip his heart with both of his hands. He fell to his side. A flame roared against his ribs. His eyes focused on the dirt in front of his face. He saw golden boulders and winged dragons and javelins of silver. Mountains rolled and swayed before his eyes. He heard the shrill, hungry screech of hawks and the lazy panting of dogs. He felt the sun warm his left side.

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Epilogue 1999 Pancho Arango walked beneath the wounded angels who guarded the cemetery entrance. He was the last to leave Hidalgo’s burial. Dust swirled in the air as clouds rolled across the sun. A different kind of dust swirled in his head, the dust of questions avoided for years, questions about the last time he had seen Hidalgo, questions for which he had no answers. Why did he tell me about the prison killing? Why was it so important that my grandson have his carving? What was he going to say about Garza and Paco? The past enveloped him in nostalgia and regret. A storm of memories rolled over him, pushing him away from the grave. He stopped abruptly, sensing the cactus before he saw it. Watch your step, pendejo. The clouds parted and the sun returned. Intense slivers of light bounced off the angels. The rusty fence glowed as though it were on fire. You’re right, Sol. Why ask now, eh? What good does that do? It was what it was. And yet, the children should know his story. Little Eddie for sure. When he’s a bit older. I promise, I will tell him, querida. He will know Hidalgo and Cat and Tino, and you, Sol. Especially you. The mumbling man made his way to his car. The sun beat down on him, warmed his bones and caressed his face. Pancho Arango stood in front of the cemetery and smiled.

•

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Las Cuatro Milpas as sung by Cuarteto Carta Blanca Cuatro milpas tan solo han quedado, en el rancho que era mío, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . de aquella casita, tan blanca y bonita, ni un muro quedó.

Si me dieras tus ojos, morena, Con el alma los llevo que miren nomás; los escombros de aquella casita tan blanca y bonita, lo triste que está.

Los potreros están sin ganado, toditito se ha acabado, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . ya no hay sementeras, ni mulas cerreras, ni un toro quedó.

Por eso estoy triste morena, por eso me pongo a llorar, recordando las horas felices que juntos pasamos en mi dulce hogar.

Se llevaron la silla plateada, el caballo lucerillo, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . Doscientos de vacas, trescientos novillos todo se acabó.

Recordando las cuatro milpitas que solo han quedado en aquel hacendón, • 172 •



reconozco que nada he perdido pues tú estás conmigo, que es lo mejor.

Las cosechas quedaron tiradas y nadie las levantó, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . los piones y arrieros se fueron y nadie volvió.

Por eso estoy triste morena, por eso me pongo a llorar, recordando las horas felices que juntos pasamos en mi dulce hogar.

The Four Corn Fields Only four corn patches remain of the ranch that I had, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . Not even a wall is left of the little white house.

If you would lend me your eyes, brown woman to accompany my soul to see the ruins of that little house so pretty and white, how sad it looks now.

There’s no cattle on the pasture, everything is gone, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . The lands are not plowed, the mules are gone, not even a bull is left. • 173 •



This is why I’m so sad, brown woman, this is what I lament; I remember the happy times we had in our sweet home.

They took the silver saddle and Lucerillo, my horse ay, ay, ay, ay . . . Two hundred cows, three hundred young bulls, all is gone.

Remembering that four corn patches are all that remain of that huge hacienda I realize that I haven’t lost anything, you are with me, that’s what matters.

The harvest was left undone with nobody to pick it up, ay, ay, ay, ay . . . the workers and herdsmen left, no one came back.

This is why I’m so sad, brown woman, this is what I lament; I remember the happy times we had in our sweet home.

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AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF NON-FICTION BOOKS ABOUT THE CHICANO MOVEMENT Oscar “Zeta” Acosta: The Uncollected Works; Oscar Acosta, edited by Ilan Stavans; Arte Público Press, 1996 El Teatro Campesino: Theater in the Chicano Movement; Yolanda Broyles-Gonzalez; University of Texas Press, 1994 The Words of César Chávez; César Chávez, edited by Richard J. Jensen and John C. Hammerback; Texas A&M University Press, 2002 “¡Mi Raza Primero!” (My People First!): Nationalism, Identity, and Insurgency in the Chicano Movement in Los Angeles, 1966-1978; Ernesto Chávez; University of California Press, 2002 Message to Aztlán: Selected Writings; Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales, edited by Antonio Esquibel; Arte Público Press, 2001 The Fight in the Fields: Cesar Chavez and the Farmworkers Movement; Susan Ferriss and Ricardo Sandoval, edited by Diana Hembree; Harvest/HBJ Books, 1998 The Making of a Chicano Militant: Lessons from Cristal; José Angel

Gutiérrez; University of Wisconsin Press, 1999

Cesar Chavez: Autobiography of La Causa; Jacques E. Levy; W.W. Norton & Co., 1975, reissued, University of Minnesota Press, 2007 Sal Si Puedes (Escape If You Can): Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution; Peter Matthiessen; Random House, 1972, reissued, University of California Press, 2000 • 175 •

Brown-Eyed Children of the Sun: Lessons from the Chicano Movement, 1965-1975; George Mariscal; University of New Mexico Press, 2005 450 Years of Chicano History in Pictures; edited by Elizabeth Martínez; the Chicano Communications Center, 1976; updated and re-published by Southwest Organizing Project as 500 Years of Chicano History in Pictures, 1991 Encyclopedia of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement; Matt S. Meier and Margo Gutierrez; Greenwood Press, 2000 Viva La Raza: The Struggle of the Mexican-American People; Elizabeth Sutherland Martínez and Enriqueta Longeaux y Vásquez; Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1974 A Documentary History of the Mexican Americans; edited by Wayne Moquin with Charles Van Doren; Praeger Publishers, 1971, Bantam, 1972 Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement; Carlos Muñoz; Verso, 1989; revised and expanded 2007 The Cristal Experiment: A Chicano Struggle for Community Control; Armando Navarro; University of Wisconsin Press, 1998 La Raza Unida Party: A Chicano Challenge to the U.S. Two-Party Dictatorship; Armando Navarro; Temple University Press, 2000 Mexican American Youth Organization: Avant-Garde of the Chicano Movement in Texas; Armando Navarro; University of Texas Press, 1995 ¡Raza Sí! ¡Guerra No!: Chicano Protest and Patriotism during the Viet Nam War Era; Lorena Oropeza; University of California Press, 2005 • 176 •

Chicano!: The History of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement; Francisco A. Rosales; Arte Público Press, 1999 Border Correspondent: Selected Writings, 1955-1970; Ruben Salazar, edited by Mario T. García; University of California Press, 1995 Brown, Not White: School Integration and the Chicano Movement in Houston; Guadalupe San Miguel, Jr.; Texas A&M University Press, 2001 Bandido: Oscar “Zeta” Acosta and the Chicano Experience; Ilan Stavans; Icon Editions, 1995 They Called Me “King Tiger”: My Struggle for the Land and Our Rights; Reies López Tijerina, edited and translated by José Angel Gutiérrez; Arte Público Press, 2001 Eyewitness: A Filmmaker’s Memoir of the Chicano Movement; Jesús Salvador Treviño; Arte Público Press, 2001 Enriqueta Vásquez and the Chicano Movement: Writings from El Grito Del Norte; Enriqueta Vásquez, edited by Dionne Espinoza and Lorena Oropeza; Arte Público Press, 2006 The Crusade for Justice: Chicano Militancy and the Government’s War on Dissent; Ernesto B. Vigil; The University of Wisconsin Press, 1999

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About the Author

Manuel Ramos is the author of numerous crime fiction novels, including The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz (1993), Blues for the Buffalo (1993), The Ballad of Gato Guerrero (1994), The Last Client of Luis Móntez (1996), Moony’s Road to Hell (2002), and Brown-On-Brown (2003). Most of these novels feature Ramos’s popular Chicano detective, Luis Móntez, and several have garnered critical and popular recognition such as the Colorado Book Award and the Chicano/Latino Literary Award (University of California at Irvine), as well as an Edgar® nomination from the Mystery Writers of America. Ramos was born in Florence, Colorado. His grandfathers included a coal miner and a veteran of Pancho Villa’s army. His father, a construction worker, and his mother raised Manuel to appreciate education and he graduated from Colorado State University, with honor, in 1970, and received his law degree from the University of Colorado in 1973. After a few years in private practice, Ramos accepted a staff attorney position with the Denver legal aid program, and the bulk of his legal career has consisted of providing legal assistance to the indigent. Today, he is the Director of Advocacy for Colorado Legal Services, the statewide legal aid program. As Director of Advocacy he is responsible for staff training, backup and support, overall direction for the agency’s litigation, and resolution of issues involving professional ethics. He has served on numerous boards, task forces, and court committees, and been the recipient of several awards and other recognition for his legal work as well as his writing. Ramos also has taught Chicano literature courses at Metropolitan State College of Denver.

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W

ings Press was founded in 1975 by Joanie Whitebird and Joseph F. Lomax, both deceased, as “an informal association of artists and cultural mythologists dedicated to the preservation of the literature of the nation of Texas.” Publisher, editor and designer since 1995, Bryce Milligan is honored to carry on and expand that mission to include the finest in American writing—meaning all of the Americas, without commercial considerations clouding the choice to publish or not to publish. Wings Press attempts to produce multicultural books, chapbooks, CDs, DVDs and broadsides that, we hope, enlighten the human spirit and enliven the mind. Everyone associated with Wings has been or is a writer, and we know well that writing is a transformational art form capable of changing the world, primarily by allowing us to glimpse something of each other’s souls. Good writing is innovative, insightful, and interesting. But most of all it is honest. Likewise, Wings Press is committed to treating the planet itself as a partner. Thus the press uses as much recycled material as possible, from the paper on which the books are printed to the boxes in which they are shipped. As Robert Dana wrote in Against the Grain, “Small press publishing is personal publishing. In essence, it’s a matter of personal vision, personal taste and courage, and personal friendships.” Welcome to our world.

Colophon This first edition of King of the Chicanos, by Manuel Ramos, has been printed on 55 pound Edwards Brothers Natural Paper containing a high percentage of recycled fiber. Titles have been set in Papyrus type, the text in Adobe Caslon type. All Wings Press books are designed and produced by Bryce Milligan.

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