My first few days back in school, I felt like an outsider again. There seemed to be more activity though. I saw some Chicanas dressed in pep squad gear and a few Chicanas were members of the journalism club. The strict demarcation between the whites and Mexicans in some areas appeared to be breaking down.
I spent a lot of time in between classes at the Chicano Student Center, which was an office and lounge space in a bungalow in the middle of the school, next to the lunch benches. Mrs. Baez was the Home-School Coordinator, a woman who lived in Rosemead’s South Side, a mother of teenagers, and active in Chicano affairs; she was also on the board of the Bienvenidos Community Center. Mr. Pérez, the print shop teacher, was the club’s adviser. Two college students were hired as part-time assistants: Blanca Glendon, a Chicana married to a black, and Carmela San Juan, who was part Mexicana and part Filipina.
ToHMAS meetings were held once a week. At the first meeting dues were paid, officers elected, issues of concern raised, and activities planned. The most significant of our activities then were the Cinco De Mayo festivities, including our own float in the annual observances, and efforts to raise funds, like holding dances.
At first the club concerned itself only with benign aspects of school life. But the barrio realities, and the long-standing issues of inequality and neglect, kept rearing their heads. During the meetings, I kept quiet in the corner, not volunteering for anything, until something, I didn’t know what, would snag my attention.
“Mrs. Baez, come outside,” a student shouted through the door of the Chicano Student Center. “There’s a fight.”
Mrs. Baez left the paperwork she was working on and quickly followed the student outside. Bam Bam and another student, Alfredo, were going at it in the courtyard. Before this, the school administration would have automatically suspended or expelled the students. Mrs. Baez now could intervene and try to work out the problems among the Chicanos before the school staff got involved. This meant a lot of gray hairs for Baez and her assistants.
I sat in the lounge area, my hair long and slicked back, with a couple of other students. Blanca opened the door and asked us to step out for a time so a student session could be held. Mrs. Baez brought in Bam Bam and Alfredo and had them sit. I walked out and looked back through the window as an intense argument ensued between Bam Bam and Alfredo, with Blanca and Mrs. Baez trying to work out some solution. This is what they had to deal with every day.
The leading members of ToHMAS were mostly women, among them Esme, Cha Cha, Amelia, Yvonne, and Flora. A few dudes helped, such as Ysidro, Alex, Chuy and myself. But the women ran everything. It was through ToHMAS, and through the example of Mrs. Baez, Blanca and Carmela, that the women from Lomas found a place to address some long-standing grievances. Their leadership found shape and form through ToHMAS, as they took to heart the battle for their respect, and that of their people.
We dealt with two dominant aspects. One was something called Project Student, with Carmela as our sponsor, which targeted the physical deterioration of the school: Walls were cracked, stairwells in disrepair, and the freeway behind the school drowned out lessons from second-floor classrooms. In the summer, the air conditioning system rarely worked, making for long, sweltering days. In the winter, rain accumulated in buckets from roof leaks. Project Student, in fact, involved more than just Chicanos; whites and others also had to endure these conditions.
The other aspect involved the issue of dignity for the Chicano students.
“You don’t mind if I don’t call you Chin do you?” Mrs. Baez asked.
“Chale, what’s up?”
“We’d like to propose you and Esme try out for Joe and Josephine Aztec.”
I looked over at Esme and then back to Mrs. Baez.
“You’re joking, right?”
“We’re very serious,” Esme said. “We’re tired of them paddies—excuse me—but them Anglos putting down our culture. They make the mascots look like Pocahontas with tommy hawks and then prance around like fools.”
“That’s true, but what are our chances—I mean, how are we going to win when the Anglos do all the judging?”
“We plan to do an authentic Aztec dance, in authentic Aztec dress,” Esme said. “If they deny us, then everyone will know how racist this school is.”
“But I don’t know any Aztec dances.”
“We have somebody willing to teach you,” Mrs. Baez said. “He’s an instructor for a folklórico dance troupe at one of the colleges. You look Indian enough with your long hair. And I think it would help involve some of the hard-core Lomas students in what we’re doing if you tried out.”
“What do you say, Louie?” Esme asked.
They knew they had me. I accepted as a formality.
Esme and I went to East L.A. College and met with a Señor Franco, the folklórico dance instructor. He taught us some basic steps and helped us find the material and designs for our dancewear. To get it right, we dedicated hours of our evenings to rehearsal.
Esme choreographed the dance routine, based on Señor Franco’s instruction. Our mothers created the costumes, and they were so strikingly beautiful, even Señor Franco was impressed. We added some non-Aztec touches too.
The rehearsals were secret. When the time neared for the tryouts, we walked into the activities office and signed up. A couple of the white students there gave us funny looks. Esme and I signed our names and then left.
The day of the tryouts, all contestants were to meet in the gym. Parents, teachers and students took up some of the bleachers. A row of judges, including some teachers and students, stayed near the performance area.
I entered the gym area in Aztec dress; I had on a leather top, arm bands and loin cloth, with a jaguar-imaged headgear propped on my head and bells strapped around my ankles. And I must have been a sight with tattoos on my arms and an earring. I saw a couple of rows of bleachers filled up with Chicanos; Mrs. Baez had organized the students to attend. As I entered, they cheered and hollered. I considered getting out of there but Esme came up behind me and held my hand. We were both nervous.
Esme and I were the last ones to perform. We suffered through a number of tumbling acts and screwball routines. Then an announcer came on the speaker:
“Now we have the team of Esmeralda Falcón and Luis Rodríguez.”
Silence saturated the gym area. I walked up solemn and straight, a wooden chair in one hand and a conga drum in the other, and sat down in the middle of the basketball court. I paused for 10 seconds, then began the beat. Esme came in slow, purposeful, with a turquoise sequined-and-feathered garment and multicolored headgear that arced around her head like a rainbow; she also had bells.
Esme could have been a priestess from Tenochtitlan, her face pure and brown, with slight makeup that accented her already slanted, indigenous eyes. She danced around me, as if calling forth a spirit; the bells on her ankles swirling around the beat, in time with the rhythm of the drum. At one point, I arose and danced with her, in unison, round and round through various steps, leading up to the climax.
We had to be serious—no laughing, no smiling, in keeping with the integrity of the dance.
A murmur swept through the bleachers when Esme and I crossed our feet together and swung around and around, hooked by our ankles, going faster and faster, the force of our swirling keeping us locked, letting the motion pull and embrace us at the same time, like in a battle. When we finished, one of my knees fell to the floor as Esme stood above me, the victor.
A few seconds passed, then an uproar of applause and cheers burst out of the bleachers. None of the other contestants received the response we did. I even saw white students and some judges clapping. They had never seen anything like it.
Esme and I waited by Mrs. Baez as the judges mulled over their decision. Finally:
“The winners are—and the new Joe and Josephine Aztec mascots of Mark Keppel High School—Esmeralda Falcón and Luis Rod. …”
The yells drowned out my last name. Esme shrieked, threw
her arms around my neck and hugged me. Other ToHMAS supporters came over with smiles and handshakes. In other people’s eyes, this may have been a small victory. But for the Chicanos at Mark Keppel High School, this meant another barrier had been torn down and an important aspect of our culture recognized. I surprised myself and felt warm inside. I tried to shake it off, but couldn’t. A flush of pride soon covered my face. We won!
More Chicanos became involved in ToHMAS. We started our own folklórico group in which Carmen San Juan taught the students some basic Mexican and Flamenco dances. Esme and I started a teatro group, based on what the Teatro Campesino of Cesar Chávez’s farm workers union were doing in rural California. Our teatro group, however, had an urban slant.
I wrote the three plays we performed. One involved a dramatic verse monologue of a Chicana about to be arrested by the cops. Another involved a one-act about being proud of our culture. But the most controversial one dealt with getting Lomas and Sangra to stop fighting each other.
This play began with someone from Sangra crossing out Lomas on a huge, piece of white paper pasted on a wall. Then the action moved toward a point when the dudes from both neighborhoods go at each other. The upshot is as the two barrios fight, local government officials are on the side determining the site of a new mall or where the next freeway will go while making plans to uproot the very land the dudes were killing each other for.
“Who wants to play the dude crossing out Lomas?” I asked. Nobody raised their hands.
“What’s the matter, it’s only a play.”
“Hey, Louie, we ain’t about to cross out the Hills,” Chuy said. “I know what you’re trying to say, but somebody might get hurt.”
I decided to play this part; I had to stand by my play.
We presented the productions at a joint cultural event sponsored by ToHMAS, MASO and HUNTOS. That day, a large grouping of dudes from Lomas came by and sat in the back. They acknowledged me, but I had to go through with the play.
When we finished, a few dudes stormed out yelling “Lomas Rifa.”
But for those who stayed, we discussed ending the warfare between the barrios. Then Esme’s portrayal of the Chicana getting beaten by the cops, in rhymed verse, helped keep the spirits high.
The wheels of progress turned too slowly. While we kept up with ToHMAS activities, the school could not keep up with all the students’ needs. Red tape and outright opposition stalled Project Student. Then one night a group of white kids broke into the school and spray-painted the walls surrounding the Chicano Student Center with stuff such as: Mexicans Go Home! Greasers Stink! Remember The Alamo!
Esme called a meeting to determine what should be done.
“We should draw up some demands,” Amelia suggested.
“That’s right. People are still prejudiced here,” said Flora.
“Well, what do we ask for? They’ve given us a lot so far—what can we get that we don’t have already?” Esme asked.
“I got an idea,” I said. “Chente over at Bienvenidos took me to the East L.A. schools. After the ‘Blowouts’ they got more Chicano teachers and even Chicano studies. This is what we need. We should demand a Chicano studies class and a Chicano teacher.”
“Maybe Mr. Pérez will teach it,” Amelia said.
“Or even Mrs. Baez—it’s a great idea. How many are for it?” Esme said. It was unanimous.
The next day we presented our plans to Mrs. Baez. I wrote up a statement with the heading: We Demand Justice! The statement called for the school to find the culprits who defaced the Chicano Student Center, for more Chicano teachers, and for a Chicano Studies class. But Mrs. Baez didn’t like it.
“Why? If we don’t do something the gabachos will try to roll back the little we’ve got,” I said.
“I think it’s too rash,” Mrs. Baez implored. “You don’t know the kind of trouble you can get into. I know Chente has introduced you to a lot of the East L.A. student leaders—but this is not Garfield High School! We are a minority in this school. We have to do things differently. We can’t just act like anybody should give us anything.”
“But the Chicanos in this school have been pushed around for too long,” Esme said. “We’re tired. Every time we try to better ourselves, we’re told to wait, to hold on, that things will get better. But it never does! We have to do something—we have to do it now.”
“I can’t support this,” Mrs. Baez said. “But you do what you feel you must.”
“We can’t do it without you,” Flora said. “And you know it.”
Then Flora walked out. Disappointment crossed over everyone’s faces. Defeat seemed to set in. But Flora’s actions gave me another idea: Why not have a school walkout like they did in East L.A.? Our demands would be for Chicano Studies, more Chicano teachers and the new classrooms, air conditioners and repairs needed as part of Project Student. It would be a walkout for our self-respect.
The word spread. Esme and the others made sure everyone talked to everyone else. Only the Chicanos were involved. I discussed with Chente what we planned to do. He wasn’t sure a walkout was a good idea, but he was willing to help us out. He ran off mimeographed copies of our demands.
The next day, everyone went to school like normal. At 10 a.m., the students were to walk out of their classrooms and assemble in front of the school.
“Do you think they’ll do it, Louie?” Esme asked, while on our way to classes that morning.
“I don’t know. But we’ll soon find out.”
In my history class, I kept an eye on the clock. As soon as the hands struck the magical hour, I grabbed my books and then proceeded out the door.
“Rodríguez, where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Tuttle said, the one we called Mrs. Turtle and who treated us like we were in kindergarten. “Young man, come back here this instant!”
But I kept on walking. In the hallways, a number of students emerged out of their classes. Not a lot, but more than I had imagined. Books were dropped in the hallways. When I made it to the front steps of the school there were already 80 to 100 students converging there. Esme and the other ToHMAS members had made crudely-painted signs and gave them to the students. I grabbed a handful of the demands from a bag and passed them out. Some of the students came up and grabbed stacks of the leaflets to help get them to other students.
In a matter of minutes, we had some 300 people on the front lawn. Teachers, and those students still in classes, stuck their heads out of classroom windows. Mrs. Baez received a phone call from Mr. Madison.
“Did you know this was going to happen?” Mr. Madison said.
“No, I didn’t know about a walkout. I discouraged them, however, from presenting their demands,” Mrs. Baez explained.
“And you refused to inform me about this?” Mr. Madison yelled. “You’re supposed to tell me what’s going on—that’s why we have you here.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware of this,” Mrs. Baez said, her voice also rising in anger. “I thought I was to be here for the students, so they can have someone to talk to and represent their interests. I didn’t know I was supposed to be your eyes and ears.”
“Mrs. Baez, come into my office right now—we’re going to have to put a stop to this,” Mr. Madison said and hung up.
When Mrs. Baez showed, Mr. Madison stood up, getting ready to do some more yelling. But Mrs. Baez interrupted him.
“Mr. Madison, you can stop right there. I am a grown woman and a mother. I am not one of your high school students. I refuse to have you talk to me in this disrespectful and condescending tone.”
“Oh you too?” Mr. Madison said. “Everybody wants respect around here. What about respect for me and this institution! We have a school to run. I can’t have the school board find out about this—I can’t let some disgruntled students ruin it for everyone.”
“I would suggest that you pay attention to these disgruntled students and stop worrying about what the school board will do,” Mrs. Baez said. “You’ve promised these children some act
ion. So far, all they’ve received is a lot of fine talk and smiling faces. I don’t support their tactics. But I believe the worst thing to do now is to sweep this under the rug. I won’t be a part of that.”
Mr. Madison looked stunned. His Home-School Coordinator had turned the tables on him. But he knew whatever he thought of her, she was still his link to the students.
“Okay, we’ll let them have their say.”
Mr. Madison sat down and made a phone call to the Dean of Students, Mr. Walsh.
“We’re calling an assembly,” Mr. Madison said. “I want those students back into the school. And then we’ll hear what they have to say. But we won’t begin to talk unless they’re inside the school building.”
Mr. Walsh came out to the lawn. The students had been chanting: We Want Chicano Studies! We Want Justice! ¡Ya Basta!
It took some doing, but Mr. Walsh convinced us to convene in the auditorium and discuss the issues.
“Bring in the whole school,” I yelled. “You can’t separate us. We want to speak to the whole school.”
At first they refused. But finally, when it looked like the students weren’t going to budge, Mr. Walsh agreed to let all the classes gather in the auditorium.
It was a session the likes of which Mark Keppel had never seen. Esme walked up to the stage and read out the demands. White students also stood up, some in tears, crying about why we were so angry.
“What have we done to you?” one blond-haired girl demanded to know.
Some Chicano students yelled back, about being neglected, treated like second-class citizens, about being denied access to school resources.
“This is not against whites,” I said. “It’s against a system that keeps us all under its thumb. By screwing us, the school is screwing you.”
“It’s your fault,” said Stan, the student body president. “You Mexicans just don’t want to get involved; you don’t want to get ahead.”
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